


Carry The Feeling

by rickyisms



Series: it all started with 1 (one) twitter DM [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Summer Jobs, connor whisk works at the country club, kent parson thinks that's hilarious, part of a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:48:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24316042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickyisms/pseuds/rickyisms
Summary: Kent did not expect to end up spending his offseason in Arizona, but he's in love and love makes you do weird things, like assemble an army of children,  buy tennis shoes and talk about your hopes and fears.The summer after the events of The Dream of Having No Room, this won't make sense without reading that first, but I'm not your mom, do whatever you want
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson/Connor "Whiskey" Whisk
Series: it all started with 1 (one) twitter DM [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738009
Comments: 54
Kudos: 215





	1. Woke up this morning, to your sleepy smile

**Author's Note:**

> someone on tumblr sent me an ask about whiskey's parents belonging to a country club and i wrote a lil something about it over there and as I was doing it i realized i really want to write about the first summer they spend together so this is here now (will be 5ish chapters)

Living with Kent is, quite possibly, the best thing that has ever happened to Whiskey. He thinks maybe one day it’ll feel normal and routine to wake up next to Kent but that’s not today. Today, they wake up and Kent’s arm is slung across his bare chest. They’re stuck together with sweat because June in Las Vegas is hot and Kent likes to sleep with the window open. He knows that he’ll have a red mark in the precise shape of Kent’s forearm across his chest when he moves it. He kind of loves that fact. 

Kent’s ankle is hooked around Whiskey’s calf, the singular thin sheet they’ve been sleeping with is bunched up around their legs, kicked off in the night. Whiskey hasn’t looked at anything other than Kent since he’s opened his eyes. He looks over at the alarm clock, just before nine. Sleeping in for both of them. He looks back at Kent and all he can think is “oh my god I love you.”

He laces his fingers into Kent’s, brings Kent’s knuckles to his lips. Kent stirs. He’s squinty eyed in the morning, hair sticking up. He wiggles his fingers in Kent’s hand and smiles out of the corner of his mouth. 

“Morning,” Kent says. 

“Good morning,” Whiskey says back.

Slowly, Kent unsticks his limbs from Whiskey’s and they sit up. Kent checks his emails. 

“Fuck,” he groans. 

“What?” Whiskey asks.

“I forgot about that biosteel brand deal I signed.”

“Isn’t that a good deal?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent nods, “Yeah but it means that I have to do shit instead of spend the entire summer in bed with you.”

Whiskey kisses him on the cheek, sits up and pats him on the shoulder. 

“You want coffee?” He asks. 

Kent nods. Whiskey’s a better morning person than Kent will ever be. 

He comes back to the bedroom with two mugs in his hand. He takes his coffee black with a bunch of sugar and Kent takes his with so much cream in it that Whiskey considers just giving him a glass of milk. But knowing Kent’s coffee order is a small form of intimacy that Whiskey really loves. 

Kent’s still sleepy but he takes the light blue mug out of Whiskey’s hand. He’s thrown his shirt on, which is at least a start when it comes to Kent deciding to get up. Whiskey climbs back into bed with him. 

“Bed head,” Whiskey says as he smooths Kent’s cowlick out. 

“What about it?” Kent smirks. 

“You’ve got it,” Whiskey shrugs. 

Kent smirks at him taking a long sip of his coffee. 

They go to the gym together most days, sometimes they go for a run, it feels far too hot today to do either of those things, a heatwave came early to the desert. Kent has ice every week, brings Whiskey along most of the time. He thinks he;ll be in better shape in September than he was when they left for summer. . 

Today’s their lazy day though. They’ll do some stretches that Kent’s trainer sends him before dinner, but other than that, it’s a rare day that belongs to them entirely. 

“My dad’s still asking when you’re going to come golf with him,” Whiskey says. Kent’s on his phone but he’s looking out the glass door that leads to Kent’s balcony. 

“Oh at the  _ country club, _ ” Kent puts on a fake posh voice. 

“God you’re the worst,” Whiskey rolls his eyes. 

“You’re the one who belongs to a  _ country club. _ ”

“Okay not me,  _ my dad  _ belongs to a country club. I just teach tennis lessons sometimes.”

And Kent nearly busts his ribs laughing at that sentence. Whiskey rolls his eyes and crosses his arm, fake pouting until Kent turns to him again. 

“Does your dad want your boyfriend or your friend to come?’

‘I want my boyfriend to come,” Whiskey kisses the side of Kent’s mouth. He tastes like hazlenut. 

Kent smiles against his lips. He wants every day to be like this. Knows that it won’t be, but he can love it while he’s here.

They get into a routine that involves Whiskey making coffee and sitting in bed together to talk about what they have to do that day. It’s a million small moments that Kent never even thought to dream of. It’s Whiskey getting into the shower while Kent’s still washing his hair and telling him to pass him the shampoo, it’s reorganizing his dresser so there’s room for Whiskey’s clothes. It’s gentle teasing and bumping shoulders in the kitchen and Whiskey continuously mentioning that his _fucking_ _dad_ texted again asking if they want to play a round of tennis. 

There is nothing that Kent takes greater delight in than saying the phrase “ _ country club _ ” with a stupid posh accent. 

“Do they cook like this at the  _ country club, _ ” he says over dinner. 

“You’re cooking tomorrow if you don’t shut up,”

Kent signs some brand deal with a stick company and he turns to Whiskey the second he gets off the phone and says. 

“Oh we’ll just have to celebrate this with a round at the  _ country club”  _

“Baby, I am literally going kill you and bury your body in a sand trap if you do not shut up about my dad’s dumb country club.”

They’re sitting on the couch in June and Kent’s sitting by one arm, Whiskey’s by the other on his phone. Kent’s been using his feet to knock Whiskey’s phone slightly. He likes being a pest at home almost as much as on the ice. 

“Would you stop that?” Whiskey rolls his eyes. 

“Who you texting?” Kent asks, cheeky. 

“My dad,” Whiskey rolls his eyes. 

“About the  _ country club _ ,” Kent wiggles his eyebrows.

“As a matter of fact yes,” Whiskey slaps Kent’s foot away, “Your toes are gross,” he says. 

“What does he want.”

“My old boss was asking if I was in town.”

Kent drags his foot over Whiskey’s thigh, grinning. 

“Would you stop that,” he gives Kent a pointed look. 

“Come over here and make me,” Kent raises an eyebrow. 

Slowly and deliberately, Whiskey turns his phone screen off and sets it down on the coffee table. His eyes are narrow and then he launches at Kent, pinning his hands beside him and wrestling him. One hand is very deliberately on Kent’s ass and they’re squirming together. 

“Oooh I can’t believe they let riff raff like you into the  _ country club, _ ” Kent smirks. 

“Oh my god,” Whiskey groans, smirk still on face, “Shut up,” he says. 

And then he quiets Kent with a kiss and if this is what running his mouth gets him, he thinks he’ll do it more often. Whiskey pulls away and Kent leans up to chase his lips, Whiskey lets him and sinks back into the kiss. 

“Baby,” Whiskey says. His phone’s buzzing on the table.

Kent keeps peppering kisses along Whiskey’s jawline.

“Let me answer that,” Whiskey reaches over to the coffee table. Kent still has his hand on Whiskey’s waist. Whiskey straightens up so that he’s beside Kent instead of on top of him. 

Kent keeps pestering him, running his hands over Whiskey’s arms, planting kisses on his neck. Whiskey shrugs him off as he answers the phone. 

He doesn’t say hello, just listens, his dad must have started talking already. 

“Yeah, that’s… I’ll think about it,” he says. 

He’s nodding, Kent knows he does that on the phone, sometimes he has to be reminded that the person on the other end can’t hear him. 

Kent’s hands slide up Whiskey’s side, he kisses his neck again, Whiskey smacks away his hand, smirking. 

“Oh yeah, if Anne wants to call me you can give her my number.” Whiskey says. 

Whiskey’s talking about tennis or something, and people Kent doesn’t know, so he just focuses on pressing kisses to Whiskey’s shoulders, climbing into his lap and trying to nuzzle against his skin. Whiskey, for the most part, just puts his arms around Kent, swats him away when he tries to steal a kiss. And Kent’s smirking because he knows Whiskey kind of loves it when Kent gets needy for attention. 

Kent’s squirming against him when he hears his own name. 

“Yeah,” I’m sure Kent would love to,” and oh fuck, what’s he getting roped into. 

Kent looks up at him with as severe a look as he can muster and Whiskey’s smirking. 

“He’s right here, he can talk.”

Whiskey hands the phone off to Kent. Kent tries to say  _ I don’t want it  _ with his eyes and then briefly  _ fuck you _ but he ends up with the phone against his ear saying hello to Stephen Whisk. 

“Uh. Hi sir,” Kent says. 

“Ah my son’s friends don’t call me sir, call me Stephen,” he says. 

Right, Kent’s his son’s  _ friend.  _

And it’s Whiskey’s turn to pester Kent, Kissing his neck and tracing circles on his shoulder. 

“Well we were hoping you’d join us at the country club. Connor’s a great tennis player and I’m sure you can hold your own.”

Whiskey’s giving him a look that seems to say  _ come up with an excuse out of this one, bitch.  _

“Oh well,” Kent starts, he really can’t come up with an excuse, “Yeah sounds good.”

Mostly he wants to end this call as quickly as possible so he can go back to being pinned against the arm of the couch and making out with his boyfriend. 

“Good,” Stephen answers. 

“Okay well, I’ll pass you back to Connor,” Kent hardly ever calls Whiskey by his first name, he did when they first got together, but hockey nicknames prevail. 

He hands his boyfriend the phone. 

Goes back to pestering him. 

Whiskey screws up his eyebrows, “Yeah dad I know we talked about it,” he says. 

Kent goes still, looks at his boyfriend with his head cocked to the side, concern. 

Whiskey sighs, “Yeah I know, okay. Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

Kent puts his hand on Whiskey’s shoulder, Whiskey shakes his head at whatever his dad’s saying. 

“Well it’s only June, so…” He pauses, “Okay. Uh. Well, Kent has a thing so we’ll talk later.”

He hangs up and sighs. 

“Are you okay,” Kent puts his head on Whiskey’s shoulder. 

Whiskey nods, “Now get back here and start kissing me again.”

Whiskey’s biting his tongue between his teeth, Kent lunges himself at him with a smirk on his face. Kent braces his hands on Whiskey’s shoulders, he’s sitting in his lap, he wants to kiss every inch of Whiskey and Whiskey seems intent on running his hands over every inch of Kent. 

“You wanna go to bed?” Whiskey raises his eyebrows at Kent. 

“I think I could be convinced to go to bed,” Kent smirks.

Whiskey gets up first, Kent pretends to be disinterested for half a second before he charges down the hallway and jumps on to Whiskey’s back, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist. 

Whiskey laughs and catches Kent without much effort. Whiskey jogs throws open the door to the bedroom and throws Kent down onto the bed, they don’t stop laughing at each other the entire time. Whiskey takes his shirt off, Kent gets the hint and pulls his own shirt over his own head, kicks his shorts off at the same time. Whiskey’s kneeling on the bed above him and he looks like… well he looks like Whiskey, and Whiskey looks  _ so fucking good _ . He’s lean muscle and his square jaw and eyes that look at Kent with an intensity that Kent thinks he could live off of. Kent’s eyes run over his torso as situates himself over top of Kent’s legs. He loves that Whiskey is strong enough to carry him down the hallway. He can appreciate the muscle definition in his arms but he goes wild over his hands, the hair on his forearms, the way his fingers delicately trace Kent’s abs. They’re both a little more muscular since they’ve been hitting the gym, no longer burning through all of their muscle and body fat on the ice. 

Whiskey leans down and Kent ‘s eyes fall closed as Whiskey’s lips brush against his. He feels the gentleness of the kiss, the patience and care that Whiskey touches him with. Kent is sitting against the headboard, puts his hands on Whiskey’s hips. He thinks he could kiss him all day. 

Kent groans softly into Whiskey’s mouth. Whiskey pulls away. 

“What?” Kent’s eyes flutter open. 

“The fucking cat’s in the room,” Whiskey mutters. 

Kent swings his legs over the side of the bed, chuckling to himself. He picks Kit up, “Nope, you can come back later,” he says to her and throws her out into the hallway, closing the door behind her, chuckling to himself. 

Whiskey’s still kneeling on the bed an amused look on his face. 

“Now where were we?” Kent says, fake suave. 

“I’m pretty sure I had you pinned to the bed,” Whiskey says. 

Kent lunges towards Whiskey, wrapping him up in an embrace and kissing him into the mattress. 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of the way Whiskey makes him feel.

Later that night, when they’ve opened the door and let Kit crawl into bed and curl up at Whiskey’s feet, Kent thinks that he would do anything for Whiskey. He knows he thinks that a lot, and it’s true, because the things he’s done so far include driving to Arizona, becoming a better person, learning how to cook rice, sacrificing half of his closet space, and agreeing to spend several hours of his time in Arizona playing a rich people sport. 

Whiskey doesn’t sleep as close as when they had to share a twin in the wintertime, it’s way too hot for that, but he does fall asleep with his hands tucked under his face and his foot brushing ever so slightly against Kent’s calf. His brows come together even while he sleeps, face perpetually molded into a frown. Kent runs his thumb over Whiskey’s brow bone and he thinks he must look like such a sap,he’s so soft for this boy. Whiskey moves a little, leaning into Kent’s touch in his sleep. Kent kisses the top of his forehead and turns of the lamp on his nightstand. It still shocks him, every day when he wakes up, that Connor Whisk is still with him. Connor Whisk who belongs to the  _ country club,  _ who’s university educated, grew up with money, and parents who stayed together and he looks at  _ Kent _ , who is, by all accounts, kind of a disaster of a person who knows how to do one thing really well and precisely nothing else, Connor Whisk looks at Kent Parson like he’s the best thing he’s ever seen. And Kent can’t believe how lucky he is. He can’t believe that he wants him to hang out with his father of all people. That has to mean that this is going to last. It has to mean something good.

Tennis can’t be that bad.


	2. we could go home together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent Parson vs. tennis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from no kings by the total bettys

It turns out to be the worst. Kent and Whiskey make the drive out from Vegas to Scottsdale. 

“Thank you for doing this, by the way,” Whiskey says about a quarter of the way through the two hour drive. 

Kent looks over at Whiskey, head resting against the leather seat, sunglasses on and hair whipping around his face, a rare moment where it’s not gelled in place. 

Kent puts his hand around the back of Whiskey’s neck and runs his thumb over the back of his head. 

“I love you, tennis can’t be that bad, right?” Kent says. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey smiles, “I’m just. Uh. I’m sorry if my dad’s weird about anything.” Whiskey mumbles. 

Kent’s hand slides down Whiskey’s shoulder and squeezes his hand. 

“It’ll be okay.”

“Just uh-” Whiskey squeezes Kent’s hand back, “He knows that we’re together because like… dunnot, it’s kind of obvious since I’m like, spending so much time at your place. But he doesn’t really talk about it. Like he’ll act like we’re just real good friends.”

“Hey,” Kent squeezes Whiskey’s hand, “It’s okay. I know this is gonna be weird for you and probably for him, but it means a lot to me that I was even invited in the first place.”

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” Whiskey leans over and kisses Kent on the side of the face, Kent can feel himself beaming. 

“Reserve judgement until you see me try to play tennis,” he looks over at Whiskey and Whiskey’s still giving him that look that Kent still can’t quite manage to convince himself he deserves. 

Kent finds a parking spot. He hopes that the fact he drives a nice car is going to buy him at least a little bit of credit with the investment bankers Whiskey’s dad is probably going to introduce them to. 

Whiskey seems to know where he’s going. He give a polite nod to the girl working the reception desk. 

“Is my dad here yet?” he asks. 

“By the tennis courts,” she answers, “Who’s this?” she asks, referring to Kent. 

“Kent,” Whiskey says, “Dad’s been fucking begging us to come for a game,” Whiskey rolls his eyes.

“You coming back this summer?” she asks. 

“Oh,” Whiskey stammers, “Well. We’ll see.”

Kent raises his eyebrow at Whiskey, but Whiskey brushes his hand against Kent’s wrist and walks him back to a fenced off area. They walk past a pool that no one is swimming in, he sees a few people drinking on a patio that attaches to the clubhouse. 

“What was that about-” Kent’s cut off by Whiskey’s dad waving them over. 

“Kent! Connor!” he says, he’s standing on the courts. 

Whiskey opens a gate and Kent is confronted with the sudden reality that he has no idea how to play tennis. 

“Good to see you, son,” Whiskey’s dad says.

Stephen shakes Kent’s hand the same way he shakes his son’s. Kent thinks it’s kind of weird that anyone shakes their kids’ hand, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Connor, you remember Carson,” 

Whiskey nods, holds out his hand. Carson shakes it, and then Kent’s. 

“Carson, this is Connor’s friend, Kent Parson. Plays for the Aces.”

“Captain,” Whiskey adds. 

“Oh, right,” Stephen smiles. 

Kent has been introduced as a member of his hockey team for as long as he can remember. This is Kent, he plays hockey. He wonders what it would be like to be just Kent, guy. 

“Not every day you play tennis against a pro,” Stephen says. 

He hands Kent and Whiskey a pair of racquets, Kent’s honestly not sure how to hold his. He looks down at Whiskey’s hands and tries to copy what he’s doing.

Kent doesn’t know if he should hate Stephen or not. On one hand, he invited him here, he seems nice, on the other, he’s seen how anxious talking about his dad makes Whiskey. He decides to try to give him the benefit of the doubt as Stephen leads him through the building and out a door. 

Along with realizing that he has no idea how to play tennis, he also realizes that he is very underdressed. He’s wearing basketball shorts and a t-shirt and his Aces hat is on backwards. Whiskey’s not as dressed up as Stephen and Carson who have like… actual tennis shorts, but he is wearing a grey polo and a pair of khaki shorts which is objectively, a nicer look. Whiskey always dresses nice, and Kent dresses like a guy who finds a shirt he likes and buys it in three different colours. 

“So do you want to serve first?” Carson asks, “since you’re our guests.”

Kent takes the ball out of Carson’s hand and nods. He’s spent an entire lifetime pretending to know what he’s doing until he figures it out. Why should tennis be any different? And he’s an athlete, he’s sure he’ll get the hang of it. 

Whiskey stands in front of him, he’s pretty sure he’s smirking at him. Kent tosses the ball into the air and… well at least he hits the ball. It goes sailing into the net and Kent looks down at his shoes. Not tennis shoes, notably. 

And he sees Stephen and his business partner give him a sort of pitiful incredulous look. 

“Ah, guess I’m all out of beginner’s luck,” Kent throws a joke out to hide behind. 

Whiskey walks towards the net to pick up the ball, “I’ll show you,” he says. 

“I guess the universe only gave you one insane athletic talent, huh,” Whiskey smirks and Kent laughs. 

“Your dad’s business buddy over there looks like he’s about to ask me if I’ve thought about diversifying my portfolio,” Kent rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t get me started on my dad’s friends,” Whiskey rolls his eyes. 

He gently takes Kent’s hands and places them on the racquet and shows him how to toss the ball, puts his hand on his waist and shows him how to rotate his body. 

Kent tries again and this time the ball goes over the net, Carson returns the serve easily and it’s coming for Kent, but Whiskey runs across the court to return the serve and scores them their first point. They high five. 

Kent feels like he’s flailing every time the ball comes over the net, he sprints across the court. He can’t remember feeling truly  _ bad  _ at a sport since he learned to skate. 

And Whiskey is  _ so  _ patient that Kent feels like he doesn’t deserve it. He walks up behind him, adjusts his elbow. He puts his hand on Kent’s waist. 

“You’ll get the hang of it,” he says. 

Kent looks over at Whiskey’s dad who’s side eyeing them while Carson grabs a drink from his water bottle. 

“This is torture,” Kent says, “For you I mean. I’m inept.”

“Ah,” Whiskey waves him off, “you haven’t tried to kick me in the balls yet, which is a step up from the six year olds I was teaching last summer.”

“There’s a dirty joke in here about me wanting to touch your balls,” Kent smirks.

Whiskey hits Kent on the ass with his tennis racket. 

“Fuck you,” he says. 

Kent shoves him playfully as he dodges the racquet a second time. 

“Loser buys a round?” Whiskey smirks. 

”Don’t tell your mother,” Stephen chuckles and nods. 

They don’t win, obviously, and Kent’s out of breath by the end of it, hunched over and smiling to himself. Whiskey walks over to him and pats him on the back. 

“Nice first try,” he’s smirking, knows how much Kent hates being bad at stuff. His hand is gentle though, comforting. 

Kent shakes his head, smiling. 

“Fuck,” he says, he looks over at Stephen and Carson, “well now you can tell everyone you kicked a professional’s ass,” he laughs at himself. 

“Well boys,let’s get that round started.”

“Yeah sure, sounds great!” Kent straightens up, he’s good at talking to people. And really good at making people like him. He learned quickly that the best way to get ahead was to manufacture some kind of charm. 

“Well Connor, your friend could probably use some of those lessons you teach,” Stephen says. Every time he speaks it feels like he’s waving his hand in front of something, as if to say  _ nothing to see here, we’re all normal, my son is very normal.  _

He feels Whiskey throw his arm very deliberately around his shoulder, it’s something that could easily be interpreted as just bros, but it’s significant to Kent, and he suspects it would be significant to Stephen.

Whiskey’s dad seems to know everyone that they pass, all the servers know who he is but Stephen doesn’t seem to talk to them more than just a polite smile. 

The thing about Whiskey’s dad is that he’s, unquestionably, nice. He cares about his son and he talks about his wife like she makes him the happiest man in the world and he does his best to make Kent feel like he belongs even though he very clearly doesn’t in his stupid backwards hat that he won’t take off for anyone. But Kent’s wary. He’s not yelling and he’s not shunning Kent or forbidding he’s son from seeing him, he’s just  _ not saying anything _ . 

Kent used to hate it when people were complicated, he wanted everyone to fit into a box. Good or bad. People he would ride or die for and people he wants gone forever. There’s a lot of things growing up does, and one of them is making you realize that that’s not how people work. 

The girl who brings them their drinks is nice, she smiles wide at them all, Kent’s not sure if she recognizes him or if she’s just not used to seeing snapbacks in the restaurant.

Whiskey has his arm resting casually on the back of Kent’s chair.  _ Mine,  _ Kent has to say, he doesn’t mind it. 

And he does his bit, charming, funny, telling NHL stories. And more of Stephen’s friends come in from a round of golf, laughing and joshing each other and they sit down at the table and some of them recognize them but Carson tells them that. 

“Kent was telling us NHL stories, he plays for the Aces,” 

“I know who you are son,” one of the men reaches out to shake Kent’s hand. 

“Good to meet you, Kent,” another one of them says. 

“Ah you guys can call me Parser,” Kent grins. That’s a trick he’s picked up, let people know your hockey nickname and they’ll feel like you’ve just invited them to be part of a club. Kent’s really good at making people feel like they’re great friends, he’s even better at not giving them more of himself than he intends to. 

So he answers their questions, they want to know about other guys in the league.

Does Crosby ever crack up? Yes and he laughs like a goose.

Does Ovechkin actually drink coke on the bench? He’s not sure but he wouldn’t be surprised. 

Is Mashkov as mean off the ice as he is on? Not really, but he definitely doesn’t like Kent. 

Kent steers clear of anything that’s personal, anything about himself beyond what he thinks about the lacrosse style goals (Strongly in favour and he’s trying to score one next season). 

“So,” says one of Stephen’s golf buddies, “I bet the girls really are something,”

A few of the guys around the table chuckle. And of course, Kent pulls out his media training answer.

“Well I’m not really uh, that’s not my priority, y’know?” Kent shrugs, takes a long sip of his drink. 

Stephen’s friend keeps pushing though. 

“I’m sure that’s what they tell ‘ya to say, don’t worry around here, it’s just us boys.”

Kent notices their waitress clearing away some dishes, pretending not to hear them. 

“Nope,” Kent says. 

“How ‘bout you Connor, how are the girls over in Massachusetts?” Another one of Stephen’s friends pipes up, and Kent kind of hates all of them. Like do old men think that young dudes do anything other than chasing girls? It’s bullshit. 

He turns to Whiskey, who unlike Kent, doesn’t seem to be squirming in his skin. Kent thinks maybe he’s better at hiding it. Whiskey takes a short sip of his gin and tonic and shrugs. 

“The women’s hockey team were in the frozen four this year, they’ll probably do it next year with all the recruits they brought it,”

Stephen’s friends laugh, but Whiskey doesn’t, just takes another cold sip of his drink because he wasn’t joking. And yeah, Kent loves him. It makes him feel just a little more comfortable in his chair

Stephen waves his hand in front of him, “Ah don’t bother the boys.”

He feels the same way he does sitting in NHL branding meetings where they try to sell him as “the face of West coast hockey”

He’s practically squirming in his chair, glad to finally get a break when Stephen starts talking work. He takes a little breath and orders another beer. He makes sure that the smile he gives her is genuine. She brings him his drink quickly, sets it down with a timidness that Kent can only attribute to the current members of his table.

“Thank you,” he says to her. 

“Of course, Mr. Parson,” she smiles, he recognizes a customer service smile anywhere, he used to have to tell his mom it was okay to frown when she got home from work. 

He looks at her nametag, Abie. She’s wearing a uniform, but he can see a small tattoo poking out from under the shoulder of the while polo shirt. It’s a chain of rose thorns. 

“I like your tattoo,” he says. 

“Oh!” she perks up a little, “Thanks, I just got this one here,” she points at another on her wrist, it’s a delicate design of a spiderweb.

“It’s really cool,” Kent says, and he honestly thinks it, he’s also very glad to be able t step out of the conversation about tax brackets that Whiskey’s dad is having and talk about something he actually knows about, “You must have a great artist,” Kent says. 

He doesn’t feel bad about talking to her, they’re the only table in her section. 

“Oh yeah, she grins, “She’s fantastic.”

Kent turns his forearm over and shows her a tattoo of a mountain range. It’s a circle, one of the only tattoos on his left forearm. Whiskey told him one night, sleepy and running his fingers over it, that it looks like a Bob Ross Painting. Trees in the middle ground, a lake in the foreground, and snowy peaked mountains in the background. it’s one of his newest, one of his favourites, his artist had shown him the design and it reminded him of the mountains he’d grown up around in New York. 

“I should get her number, I’m looking for someone to do a sleeve for me,” he says. 

“I like that one,” she smiles, not a customer service smile, Kent recognizes. 

“Hurt like a bitch to sit for, but it’s my favourite,” he smiles back at her. 

“Can you grab me another beer, sweetheart,” someone at the table says. 

Abie visibly winces but smiles a toothy grin anyway. 

“I’ll get that for you right away.”

Whiskey reaches under the table and squeezes his knee under the table as the men who’ve joined them get up to settle their bills and head out to the golf course. Kent thinks he’ll cut his left hand off before he plays golf with these dudes. 

“Sorry about them,” Stephen says, “You know how some guys are.” 

Kent just nods politely. He wishes he had something better to say, wishes he knew what to say. He knows that he’s made more money in his entire life than most of the men standing around him, and it is, almost entirely men who seem to be patronizing the restaurant. The nice car he drives, the expensive watch he wears, it all feels fake. No matter what, he still feels like the kid who showed up to Rimouski with second hand equipment, who cried when he found out they’d replace his stick when he broke it in practice. 

He wants Whiskey’s dad to like him so bad. He wants that shred of approval, wants that for Whiskey too. 

“So, have you thought about Anne’s offer?” Stephen’s only talking to Whiskey. 

“Oh,” Whiskey says, “It’s uh. It would make sense,” he says. 

Kent has no idea what anyone’s talking about, but that’s not a new feeling. 

“Well, I think you should take it, if my advice is worth anything to you,” Stephen leans back in his chair, “Your mother and I would be happy to have you back.”

And  _ nope. Fuck That,  _ Kent thinks, whatever they’re talking about, Kent doesn’t like it if it involves Whiskey spending the summer anywhere but with him.

“I said I’ll think about it, dad,” Kent can hear the edge in his boyfriend's voice. 

“I’m only trying to talk,” Stephen says. 

Kent can see Whiskey biting his tongue. 

“That’s new for us,” Whiskey says, a sharp tone to his voice. 

“Hey,” Stephen says, “You’re the one who says we should talk more,” Stephen’s voice takes on the same bite as his son’s does when he’s angry. 

Kent stays quiet, looking down but making it apparent he’s on Whiskey’s side, whatever this is. 

“Talk, not tell me what to do,” Whiskey’s teeth are clenched. 

“Well maybe if it didn’t take you a month and a half to think about something,” Stephen’s voice is rising, he lowers it, remembering other people sit at the tables around them. 

“I’m not a little kid.”

“You sure do act like one sometimes.”

“Whatever,” Whiskey sighs. 

His father pulls out his wallet, drops a 50 on the table. 

“Keep thinking, then,” he says before getting up. He plasters a smile on his face as he passes a waiter. 

Whiskey blows a breath out of his nose and rubs his hands through his hair, folds his arms on the table and rests his face on top of them. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. 

Kent puts his hand on the back of Whiskey’s neck and shakes his head, “Don’t be,” he says. 

“What was that about?”

Whiskey shrugs, “Can we get out of here.”

Kent nods. He keeps his hand on Whiskey’s knee even as he asks Abie for the bill. She brings it to the quickly. 

Kent tips a hundred bucks on their 40 dollar bill and to this day, that’s his favourite part about making the money he does. He thinks Abie’s more than earned it putting up with Stephen and his friends for a few hours. 

Whiskey’s quiet in the car and Kent doesn’t know how to broach the subject of his dad and whatever had caused the argument. Kent turns to him and simply says, “What’s your favourite kind of ice cream.” 

It’s not something he’s ever asked, not something he’s ever had reason to know, but he wants to know now. 

“What’s your favourite kind of ice cream,” Kent repeats. 

“Cookie dough,” Whiskey answers. His frown breaks as Kent turns into a Baskin Robbins parking lot and parks. 

“I’ll be right back,” he kisses Whiskey on the top of the head. 

“Ice cream doesn’t fix everything!” Whiskey calls after him.

“No, but it’s good anyway!” Kent shouts back at him. 

Whiskey’s sitting with his legs crossed in the passenger seat when Kent comes back to the convertible holding two cups of cookie dough ice cream.

“You’re an idiot and I love you,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah,” Kent says. 

He folds his legs underneath of him when he sits down, rests his head against the seat and looks intently over at Whiskey. 

Whiskey takes a bite, smiles. His shoulders heave as he sighs. He sticks the spoon in his mouth, biting down gently on the plastic. 

“I’ve taught tennis lessons there since I was 15,” Whiskey sighs, “As like a summer job. When I was on the phone with my dad the other night he was asking me if I was going to come back this summer.”

Kent nods, Whiskey takes another bite. 

“And I was trying to figure out how to tell you that that’s what he was saying because the lessons start at the end of June and my dad keeps asking when I’m coming home but I don’t know how to tell him that my parents’ house doesn’t feel like home anymore,” Whiskey shoves a huge chunk of cookie dough in his mouth, “so yeah. That’s what he was talking about.”

“Do you  _ want  _ to go back,” Kent says, hesitance in his own voice. 

“I like the job,” Whiskey says, “And it’s good money but… I finally get to see you all the time and I’ve loved being with you so much for the past couple months.”

“Me too,” Kent says. The absolute last thing he wants is to wake up this summer and not roll over to see his boyfriend’s head resting on the pillow next to him, already awake and watching Kent. 

And because Kent is impulsive and his first instinct is to solve everyone else’s problems for them, he blurts, “I’ll give you the money you’d make this summer.”

Whiskey shoots him down immediately, “No way.”

Kent knew that was coming but it was worth a shot. 

“We picked this, y’know?” Whiskey says, “Long distance. But this summer was supposed to be ours and I just had this perfect vision of how it was going to go and I guess I knew that they were going to ask me to come back to work but I just wasn’t acknowledging it, like how I thought if I didn’t write an essay it would just go away, but it doesn’t go away because life just keeps going and it’s so fast and I just… forget that sometimes. And god I’m such a dick for springing this on you and I should just stay with my parents for the summer and I’m being dramatic and it’s not that big of a deal and,” Whiskey takes a long deep breath and crumples in on himself. 

Kent crawls over the console, and in the shade of a tree in the corner of the parking lot, he sits on his boyfriend’s lap. He hugs him tight. 

He racks his brain for a way to possibly fix this and comes up with one pretty quickly. 

“I’ll rent a place in Phoenix,” Kent says. 

“What?”

“For the summer. I’ll find a place and you can go to work and I’ll go to the gym. And we’ll still live together.”

“Ken,” Whiskey angles Kent so that they’re eye to eye, “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking. I’m volunteering. I want to be with you  _ so  _ much and I love you but I know that I’m going to have to share you with Samwell in September, so let me do this now.”

Whiskey looks like he’s trying to come up with a reason why this won’t work, and briefly, Kent’s afraid that he’s found one. 

“Okay,” Whiskey says, “I love you a lot.” Whiskey says. 

“I love you too, eat your ice cream, dork,” Kent’s not sure if his cheeks are pink because he’s been in the sun all day, or because Whiskey just has that kind of effect on him. 

“So, does this mean I get to see you in tennis shorts more often,” Kent teases a few minutes later. 

They’re driving down a deserted patch of road,Kent put the roof up to keep the dust out of their eyes, so with the music playing faintly, it really does feel like it’s just Kent and Whiskey alone in the universe, at least for now. 

“There is nothing sexy about a pair of tennis shorts.”

“Mmm,” Kent considers, “Incorrect.”

“That’s like saying hockey pants are sexy.”

“They are when you’re wearing them,” Kent says. 

Whiskey crosses his arms, shakes his head with a smile on his face, “You’re lucky I like your face,” he says. 

“Y’know everyone else says it’s pretty punchable.”

“By everyone else you mean Alexei Mashkov,” Whiskey rolls his eyes.

“I got in that fight with a Flyer in the first round.”

“Fights don’t count if your both under six feet.”

“Hey!” Kent reaches over the centre console to elbow Whiskey in the ribs, Whiskey laughs, squirms away from Kent. 

“It was rat on rat crime, baby,” Whiskey says. 

“I’m a hockey player, we fight,” Kent puffs out his chest. 

“A little, teeny tiny hockey player,” Whiskey holds up his thumb and forefinger so that Kent knows just how teeny tiny. 

“You are three inches taller than I am. And I bench more than you do.”

“Teeny tiny rats can be jacked too,” Whiskey says. 

Kent laughs at the mental image. Shaking his head at Whiskey. 

“Turn this up,” Kent instructs. 

Whiskey obliges, Kent sees him looking at him out the side of his eyes. Whiskey reaches over and plucks the hat off of Kent’s head, he relaxes into his seat. He puts his feet on the dash and Whiskey is the only person in the world except for maybe Kelli that Kent would let do that. 

Kent subconsciously runs his hand through his hair now that the hat’s gone. He really doesn’t know what to do with it when it’s not under a hat or a helmet. If he can help it, he likes to keep his hair tucked away. 

The sun’s setting over the dessert. Whiskey cranks the stereo and he starts humming along in the non-committal way that he does when he’s embarrassed to admit he knows one of the songs on Kent’s playlist. Whiskey has Kent’s hat resting on his head, hair pushed up, a sheen of sweat on his forehead and his arm hanging out the window like he's trying to catch the wind. He’s smiling, and Kent thinks he could get used to Arizona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kent "grand gestures" Parson
> 
> I feel like the beginning is kind of slow lmao but honestly there's not really a plot here, more like an aesthetic and some tenderness and boys being in love, idk how into that everyone is but I'm already writing it so,,,


	3. Sometimes I forget to spit out the seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some domesticity.... and insecurity (ooooh scary)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from your cat by slaughter beach, dog

Whiskey’s gone most afternoons and the afternoons he does have off, Kent finds himself having to train. He’s skating at the Coyotes’ arena so he has to take ice time when he can find it. He got a few strange looks when he requested to be allowed to change his primary training location, but he did it anyway. 

He’s not as cut up about the team’s playoff loss as he was in the weaks immediately after, but he still thinks about it in the gym, he still uses it as fuel to keep himself going. 

He gets home before Whiskey so he decides to try to cook something. It won’t be anything near what Whiskey’s mom can cook for him, probably not near what Whiskey could make himself, but Kent at least wants to try. He turns on a playlist, he boils water for pasta and gets a bag of spaghetti out of the cupboard. Kit hops up onto the counter and headbuts at his hand. Kent pushes him away but she doesn’t relent until she gets an uncooked noodle to crunch on. 

Then he gets out a saucepan and starts to cook the ground beef for a half-assed bolognese sauce. It starts to smell pretty good once he seasons it. He dumps the pasta into the sauce and mixes just as the front door opens. 

“Hello?” Whiskey yells.

“In the kitchen!” Kent answers. 

“Smells good! Did you order?” Whiskey says before walking into the kitchen, “Oh wow!” Whiskey says, “Did you cook?” 

He walks up behind Kent, wraps his arms around his chest and nuzzles against his neck. 

Kent nods, “It’s not great but…” he trails off. 

Whiskey manhandles Kent so he’s facing Whiskey. Whiskey cranes his neck and plants a kiss on Kent’s lips, “I’m sure it’s gonna be great,” Whiskey says. 

Kent tilts his mouth, angling for another kiss. Whiskey smiles and happily obliges, pressing his hand to Kent’s cheek. Whiskey’s still in his work clothes, the immediacy of his affection not lost on Kent. 

Kent puts his hands on Whiskey’s waist and pulls him closer as he deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue against Whiskey’s. 

Whiskey steps forward, backing Kent up against the counter and then in one beautiful movement, lifts Kent up so he’s sitting on the counter. Whiskey crowds in between Kent’s legs. They’re kissing and it smells like garlic and tomato sauce and Kent threads his fingers through Whiskey’s hair, dull fingernails scratching at the back of his neck. Kent groans, open mouthed, and Whiskey takes the opportunity to push his tongue further into Kent’s mouth, he plants his hands on Kent’s thighs, spreading his legs apart. 

“I’m sure dinner’s gonna be great but you taste pretty good too,” Whiskey smirks. 

“Oh fuck,” Kent says. It’s a cheesy line but, god damn, it’s working, “You’re so hot,” Kent slips his hands under Whiskey’s shirt, spreads them out over Whiskey’s back. He’s sticky from sweating all day and he was probably planning on jumping in the shower before dinner, but Kent has other plans now. 

“Don’t even start, I get home and find you cooking dinner dressed like this?” Whiskey says. 

Kent hadn’t even realized that he’s wearing the pair of tan cotton shorts that Whiskey had practically ripped off of him last time he’d worn them. They’re a little shorter than anything he’d wear out of the house, but they’re comfortable. His arms are a little more defined than they had been at the end of the season, since he’s put on muscle training, and his white tank top is doing a great job of indicating that to his boyfriend. 

“Okay but I’ve been waiting for you to get home for hours and you walk in looking like a tennis instructor I’d risk it all to have an affair with,” Kent whispers into Whiskey’s ear. 

Whiskey takes the black snapback off of Kent’s head and sets it down on the counter beside Kent so he can tangle his fingers in Kent’s hair. 

Kent slips his hand into Whiskey’s shorts and Whiskey lets out a startled gasp and grinds up into Kent’s hand. 

“Fuck,”Whiskey’s head falls to Kent’s shoulder, his arms wrapped around Kent. He mouths at Kent’s neck. 

He tightens his grip on Whiskey, jerks him off faster. 

“Love it when you look like this,” Kent whispers into Whiskey’s ear. 

“Only for you,” Whiskey mumbles.

Kent feels Whiskey’s nails digging into his back, dragging down his spine. Whiskey kisses Kent on the mouth, he groans, breath laboured as Kent strokes him through it. 

“I can’t believe you couldn’t wait until I had a shower,” Whiskey mumbles. 

“Not much point in letting you clean up if I was just going to get you dirty again,” Kent drags his teeth over Whiskey’s neck.

He sucks a mark just below his collar, Whiskey’s chest heaves.

“Yes,” Whiskey mumbles against Kent’s chest as he comes. 

Kent wipes his hand on his shorts and let’s Whiskey kiss him full and dirty. Kent pulls away with a smirk on his face, puts his hand on Whiskey’s chest. 

“Go have your shower, I’ll finish dinner. And then after that, you’re going to take me to bed,” Kent smirks, he jumps down from the counter and wraps his hands around the back of Whiskey’s neck and kisses him. 

Whiskey nods, “I hope you know that I will  _ not  _ be taking it easy on you,” Whiskey steals one more kiss and walks down the hall to the bedroom en-suite. Kent pours himself a glass of cold water from the jug in the fridge and downs it all in two gulps. His boyfriend, who is clearly the hottest man in the entire world, is in the shower, because Kent just gave him a handjob in the kitchen that they share, in the city that Kent volunteered to move to so that they could stay close together, and when his boyfriend gets out of the shower they’re going to eat dinner together and then they’re going to have sex and they’ll probably stay up watching TV and fall asleep with the window open. Kent has to remind himself how good he has it sometimes, otherwise he worries he might forget and mess it up. 

He sets his water glass back on the counter. He finds two plates and scoops the pasta onto them. Then he crouches down in front of the fridge. He pulls out a cheap beer for himself and a can of white claw for his fancy college boyfriend and sets them on the table beside the pasta. He checks his phone only to be ambushed by Whiskey, wearing a pair of Kent’s shorts and his own SMH t-shirt. 

Whiskey gives him a light peck on the lips. 

“It really does look great, babe,” he says. 

Kent blushes a little, he shrugs, “It wasn’t like, hard, or anything.”

“It still looks great.”

“I remembered to season the ground beef and the sauce,” Kent says. 

“You proud of yourself for that, white boy?” the loving look in Whiskey’s eyes doesn’t go away even as he’s making fun of Kent.

“I just wanted you to know what to expect,” Kent kisses the side of Whiskey’s mouth. 

“Dinner,” Whiskey says and pulls away from Kent’s kiss. 

Kent smiles, he nods and sits down. 

He opens his beer, Whiskey opens his white claw and they cheers. 

“How was the skate?” Whiskey asks twirling pasta around on his fork. 

“Good,” Kent answers, finishing a bite of his own. 

This is something new to him as well, since being with Whiskey. As much as he’d talked himself into believing it at the time, Jack wasn’t ever really his boyfriend, so he’s never had one. Not until now. He’s still working on convincing himself that he has more value in a relationship than just sex. Swoops spent like three years screaming it at him, Kelli joined in eventually. He’s working on it in therapy when he goes, but he still worries sometimes that Whiskey’s going to wake up and realize that Kent’s nothing better than a place to put his dick. 

Whiskey, for his part, keeps looking at Kent like he’s the most important thing in the room, no matter what. 

“What about work?” Kent asks, he takes a sip of his beer.

“It was fine, this one kid I teach almost got heat stroke because she refused to drink anything all day even though I kept telling her to, so that was a nightmare, but otherwise,” Whiskey shrugs, “It’s just tennis.”

Kent nods. 

“I missed you though,” Whiskey says. 

“I missed you too, I hate getting home first,” Kent laments, because he always gets home first. 

“You’re always the one who has to leave first,” Whiskey fairly points out. 

“What do personal trainers have against sleeping in,” Kent complains. 

Whiskey rolls his eyes, “You're the one who hates going to the gym alone.”

“Maybe if you’d come with me,” Kent ribs. 

“I’ll do your NHL training when you teach tennis lessons for six hours a day.”

“My first lesson will be called, how to get your boyfriend to return all the serves for you.”

Whiskey kicks him under the table. Kent laughs, looks down at his dinner, takes another bite and smiles, shaking his head. 

“What?” Whiskey asks. 

“Nothing,” Kent answers, almost embarrassed to tell Whiskey just how much he loves this.

Whiskey takes a long sip of his drink, Kent gulps down his beer. 

They put away the leftovers, leave the dishes in the sink for later. 

Whiskey picks Kent up and Kent wraps his legs around Whiskey’s torso while Whiskey backs them into the wall. 

“I don’t know if I find it incredibly sexy or incredibly annoying that you can pick me up,” Kent says. 

“I’m angling for a bit of both,” Whiskey grins. 

“It’s working,” Kent groans. 

“I can tell,” Whiskey smirks. 

“Bed,” Kent orders.

“Are you expecting me to carry you there?” Whiskey raises an eyebrow. 

“If you want to continue being annoyingly sexy, then yes,” Kent says. 

So Whiskey adjusts his arms and he’s carrying Kent bridal style and kissing him all lovey and reverent. And then Whiskey throws Kent down onto their bed and the kiss becomes absolutely fucking filthy. 

Two full hours later and Kent’s lying in bed, sweaty and sticky and completely and utterly  _ wrecked _ . There are scratch marks running down his back and his thighs are shaking. The hairs on his arms stand on edge. 

Whiskey eases open the door, he’s holding a washcloth and a bottle of yellow gatorade.

“Gatorade?” Kent raises an eyebrow. 

“Let me take care of you,” Whiskey jumps into bed beside Kent. 

“I thought you just did that,” Kent says. 

“No, I just fucked you,” Whiskey smirks. 

Kent tosses his head back into the pillow, dopey smirk on his face. 

“You don’t have to do all this,” Kent insists. 

“Dude,” Whiskey says, “I’m not an expert or anything but part of good sex is like, aftercare, or whatever.”

“I thought the only requirement for good sex was orgasms.”

“And you got two, now drink the gatorade,” Whiskey picks up the bottle and presses it to Kent’s chest, it’s cold and it makes him jump, he laughs as he cracks the top off of the bottle and takes a swig. 

Whiskey curls up next to him, laying on his side, he rests his head on Kent’s shoulder. Kent’s still awkward in moments like these, it’s like he’s still waiting for Whiskey to wake up and run away. Every time he tells Whiskey he loves him, he panics in the half a second it takes Whiskey to say it back, and then he feels like an asshole for expecting him to say it back. He’s worried that he isn’t good enough, or smart enough. He feels like he’s going to get caught, that this beautiful amazing moment that he’s living in is going to dissolve. 

It’s even worse, because Whiskey is so honest with him about what he needs for himself. He’s been so good about keeping up therapy. Kent doesn’t know how to say, “hey, babe, I feel like I’m constantly a burden to you and I maybe need reassurance that I’m not.”

So he doesn’t say anything, he just drinks his gatorade and looks up at the ceiling. Whiskey traces circles over his chest, head still planted in the crook of Kent’s neck. 

_ Don’t you realize,  _ Kent thinks to himself,  _ don’t you realize how perfect you are, how much better you can do.  _

He looks at Whiskey and he sees someone who’s bright, and kind and funny. Someone who was brave enough to tell his parents he was moving in with a guy, who has an NCAA championship ring and he’s  _ so young  _ and that terrifies Kent. Because what if he’s holding Whiskey back from something? He thinks about how much he’s changed since he was 21, wonders if Whiskey might change too, realize that he doesn’t actually like Kent. 

“You should come to work with me tomorrow,” Whiskey says. 

“That’s an option?” Kent asks, torn away from his own spiralling thoughts by Whiskey’s voice.

“My dad still has you on the guest list,” Whiskey says, “And I know you don’t have anything tomorrow, so it beats just sitting around.” 

“I’d like that,” Kent says, and he turns around to kiss Whiskey’s forehead. 

He hates his brain for a lot of different reasons but he hates it most in this moment, because even as Whiskey’s wrapping himself around Kent, holding him tight and safe, and secure and saying, “I love you,” the doubt still creeps in. A little gnawing feeling in his stomach telling him that he’s going to ruin this one day. That it won’t last, that nothing lasts, that Whiskey’s wrong for loving him. 

He manages to quiet the feeling as Whiskey throws his leg over top of Kent’s and settles in for the night. Kent can feel soft breathing against the back of his neck, he feels strong arms holding him in place, and he’s tired. He still stays up far longer than he should, looking out the window. Thinking about that country club, thinking about how Kent doesn’t really belong there. Thinking about what might happen if he’s not good at blending in. 

They survived the distance for so long, what if proximity kills them? He looks at the end of the bed where Kit’s sleeping. He envies that position. Kit’s never going to doubt his love for her, never going to have to worry about getting broken up with, about ruining a relationship… again. 

What if Whiskey decides he doesn’t like the way he snores, or the way he squeezes the toothpaste tube from the middle, or decides he wants a boyfriend who can play tennis, or a girlfriend who he can be out with. 

How much does Whiskey really know about Kent? The longer they live together the more he’ll learn, what if he finds more to hate?

Kent finally falls asleep when his eyes won’t stay open anymore. Blissfully, he doesn’t remember his dreams, so they can’t have been that bad. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You thought love alone could cure the trash fire that is Kent's mental health? lol nope.   
> But I promise it's gonna be okay because they love each other a lot
> 
> as always comments are very appreciated!


	4. He'll want me to stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kent Parson is in his own head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from i think he knows by taylor swift

“Mr. Parson, can I get you a chair?” someone from behind Kent asks. 

He’s been leaning over the fence watching Whiskey set up for his first lesson of the day. 

He turns around and sees one of the bev cart girls standing behind him. She has a small, unsure smile on her face. 

“Oh,” Kent says, “Uh, yeah, sure.”

“Okay,” she smiles at him. 

She comes back a few minutes later with one of the folding deck chairs and hands it to him. 

“Just hanging out with Whiskey… er, Connor, today.” Kent says, “We’re roommates,”

“Glad you’re here, sir,” she says. 

“Oh, uh, you don’t have to do that with me, the whole,  _ sir  _ thing. It’s fine.”

“Hmm,” she says.

“I’m not like, loaded like the guys who are usually here.”

She looks down at his rolex. 

“I mean I am but like… athlete rich, y’know?” he shrugs. 

He’s pretty sure she has no idea what he’s talking about but nods anyway. 

“Well if there’s anything I can get you,” she shrugs. 

“Thanks,” Kent says. 

Whiskey walks over to Kent, broom in hand, “Oooh a chair, fancy,” he smirks. 

Kent runs his hand along the collar of Whiskey’s shirt.

“How much more do you have to do?”

“Just this half of the court,” Whiskey mutters. 

“And how long does that usually take you?”

“Ten minutes,” Whiskey shrugs. 

“Perfect, then I have 45 minutes to bug you before the lesson starts.”

He tugs on the collar of Whiskey’s shirt and Whiskey leans over the fence to kiss Kent, he puts his hand on Kent’s chest. It’s quick but it still makes Kent’s head spin. 

“That’s a great idea but rich people like to show up early, so more like 15,”

“Who sends their kids to a country club for the summer anyway,” Kent says. 

“The ones who think summer camp is above them, I dunno. I played lacrosse in the summer,” he shrugs. 

“I didn’t know that,” Kent says. He wonders if he sounds as insecure as he feels about that fact. 

“Now you do,” Whiskey shrugs. 

Kent hears the gate unlatch and a young girl walks in wearing a bright pink t-shirt and a tennis skirt, an older woman follows behind her. 

“Hey Carly,” he hears Whiskey say, “I’ve just gotta finish sweeping up, why don’t you start stretching.

“How many kids usually show up?” Kent asks. 

“Ten, give or take,” Whiskey shrugs, “I do private lessons on the weekend.”

“And how much do those cost?” Kent winks. 

Whiskey starts to swear but sees another couple of kids and turns around to face them. 

“Morning guys,” he says, cheerful. Kent sees their mom looking at him out of the side of his eye. 

“This is Kent Parson,” Whiskey notices too and introduces them, “He’s a member,” that seems to be the magic word to get away with whatever he wants around here.

“Nice to meet you,” Kent extends his hand. These people shake hands so often. 

“How do you two know each other?” she asks. They’re also a lot nosier than Kent is comfortable with.

“Hockey,” Whiskey answers. 

That entirely ends the conversation as the woman nods.  _ Hockey  _ seems to be a pretty simple hand-wavey explanation

A girl, college age, walks through the gate next. She has a black pixie cut and she wears a pair of sunglasses on top of them. 

“Hey Connor,” she grins, “Thanks for coming early.”

Kent watches Whiskey blush a little as the girl hugs him. 

He puts his hand on her elbow and Kent knows that’s just a friendly gesture, but still… He forces on a smile though, as Whiskey introduces them. 

“This is Lia,” he says, “We teach lessons together, Lia this is Kent, he’s my roommate.”

_ Roommate,  _ it’s true, and it’s what they agreed to call each other when they were being discreet. He still doesn’t like it. It’s not necessarily that he needs to be out, it’s just here, in this place, he wants to feel like Whiskey’s his. 

He kicks himself. He has literally no reason to be jealous, literally no reason not to trust Whiskey, no reason not to like this girl who has said a grand total of one word to him, 

“Hi.”

Kent forces himself to smile at her. 

“It’s good to meet you.”

Kent spends some of the day wandering around the country club, he drinks a virgin pina colada (because it’s 2 p.m.). He finds that waitress he’d talked to at lunch with Whiskey’s dad and they swap more tattoo stories. 

He’s about to head back to the tennis courts since Whiskey’s lessons finish at three. He sees Stephen Whisk standing in the doorway. 

“Parson!” He says, Kent can’t tell if it’s genuine. 

“Hi Stephen,” Kent plasters his best smile on his face

“So you’re staying here for the summer?” Stephen asks Kent once he’s walked over and shaken his hand.

Kent’s not sure if he’s about to get the shovel talk in some sort of strange roundabout way. 

Kent nods. 

“How’s Connor?”

“Good,” Kent answers honestly. Because Whiskey is doing so good and Kent would do just about anything to keep him doing that well. 

“Good to here,” Stephen says. 

“I think he’s finishing a lesson up right now,” Kent says. 

“How are you liking the city?”

Kent shrugs, “S’good. Bit far from home for you,” Kent says. 

“Well,” Stephen shrugs, “Worth it for the golf courses.” Stephen shrugs. 

It’s fucking weird having a conversation with Whiskey’s dad without… well Whiskey being there. 

“I’m training over at the Coyotes’ practice rink,” Kent says. 

“Oh. Well. Connor played a youth tournament there. He liked it,” Stephen’s running his finger around the rim of his glass. 

“Good sheet of ice,” Kent says. 

There’s a long pause where Kent considers just bolting. Stephen’s looking down. He clears his throat. 

“He’s uh.” He starts, “I never really understood his hockey thing,” Stephen says, “I just know it’s important to him and uh,” Stephen says, he speaks in the same cut off sentences as Whiskey does when he knows what he wants to say but isn’t sure how, “I’m glad you’re friends,” Stephen exhales. 

“Yeah,” Kent gives Stephen an awkward smile. 

Stephen clears his throat again, claps loudly, “Have you thought about joining the club?” Stephen asks. 

“Oh,” Kent says, “Uh, it’s nice, but I’m not sure if it’s quite my scene. I’m just a guess today.”

Stephen gives Kent a half shrug, “I get it. Don’t want to hang out with all us old folks.”

“Well, not exactly,” Kent says. Even though,yes, exactly. 

“Think about it,” Stephen says, “I’m sure my son would like having you around for the summer”

That’s how Kent ends up with a membership at the Red Rock Golf and Country Club for the summer, talked into it by Stephen Whisk. He walks over to the tennis courts, leans over the fence. He sees Whiskey cleaning up from the lesson he just taught. 

“So,” Kent says. 

“So,” Whiskey says back. 

“Guess who’s now an official member of the  _ country club _ ,”

“I thought you hated the concept of a country club,” Whiskey tosses the last tennis ball into a bucket and walks over to the fence. 

“I do. I love the concept of getting to bug you all summer,” Kent says. 

“Oh so you’re paying membership dues to pester me while I try to work.”

“Is teaching tennis lessons really  _ work _ ?”

“I’d like to see you do it, dickhead,” Whiskey walks over to the fence. 

He takes the hat off of Kent’s head, Kent swipes at his hand, misses and runs it through his own hair as Whiskey puts the hat on his own head.

“So, what’s the rule about flirting with the staff?” Kent asks. 

Whiskey smirks, “I am off the clock, baby,” he says. 

“What happened to Lia?” Kent asks.

“Oh, she had to go for her kitchen shift early,” Whiskey shrugs, “I stayed later to clean up.”

Whiskey pulls his tennis bag over his shoulder, “Do you want to grab dinner on the way home. I’m in the mood for something that would make your nutritionist angry.”

“Me too,” Kent smiles. 

For now, he thinks, he’s going to be okay.

Whiskey slips his hand into Kent’s and squeezes before dropping it as they head to the parking lot. The sun is still high in the sky, beating down on the pair. Kent fumbles in his pocket for his keys, his hand stills when he hears whimpering. He looks down, and sitting on the ground in front of one of the many decorative rocks that decorate the front entrance is a little kid. Kent doesn’t even have time to think before Whiskey’s crouching down in front of him. 

“Hey, buddy,” Whiskey says. The kid can’t be more than six. 

“Hi, Connor,” he sniffles. 

Kent doesn’t know what to do in this situation, he’s not  _ bad  _ with kids, but usually when they start crying, someone else swoops in to fix it for him. 

“Did you fall?” Whiskey asks. 

The boy sniffles and nods, holding out a skinned knee for Whiskey to see.

Whiskey puts his tennis bag on the ground. He pulls out a small first aid kid that has the country club’s logo pressed into the front. Whiskey pulls out a tube of polysporin and smears it on the cut, the boy winces, but Whiskey pats his shoulder and tells him he’s “doing a good job.” 

“Was someone supposed to come pick you up?” Whiskey asks as he’s peeling the back off of a band-aid. 

The kid nods. 

“We can wait with you, then,” Whiskey smiles. 

The kid nods again as Whiskey presses the bandage to his leg. Then Whiskey hoists him up onto the decorative rock and sits next to him. Kent leans against a fencepost. 

“Your lesson went really well today, work on your backhand next time and you’ll be gold,” Whiskey says to the kid. 

“But that’s so hard,” the kid complains. 

“I know,” Whiskey says, “Mine’s still not great,” but it’s worth learning,” he smiles. 

Kent watches this with a smile on his face and a faint feeling of dread in his stomach. He doesn’t unpack the dread right away, just appreciates how sweet his boyfriend is. He’d watched him coach those kids for a few hours today and he’d be lying if he said that didn’t make him fall in love with Whiskey just a little bit more. Whiskey will insist, over and over again that he’s not actually good with kids, but he’s patient and he listens and Kent thinks that’s really all it takes. 

Then the dread, if Whiskey ever wants kids… Kent can’t give him that like someone else could, it wouldn’t be the same, and even if it could, Kent wouldn’t be the person to do it with. He doesn’t know what it is, being here, that’s made him feel so insecure. If these feelings have always existed and they were just waiting for the right moment to rear their heads. 

As usual, someone talks, and Kent comes back down to earth. 

“Connor!” A woman’s voice. 

“Hi Mrs. Whitton,” Whiskey smiles, “Carter had a little fall, so we decided to sit with him.”

“I’m so sorry I’m late honey,” the woman hugs the boy, who Kent assumes is her son. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Whiskey says, “It gave us time to talk about Carter’s next lesson.” Whiskey squeezes the little boy’s shoulder gently.

“Thank you,” the boy’s mother gives Whiskey a peck on the cheek and grabs her son’s hand and they walk towards an SUV. Kent gets a small smile, he nods his head in acknowledgement. 

“Dinner?” Whiskey turns to Kent. 

Kent nods, “I want shitty fast food onion rings and cheese that’s more plastic than anything else,” he says. 

“I can definitely arrange that.” Whiskey says. 

“Can you drive?” Kent asks, handing Whiskey his keys. He doesn’t know why, but he feels very tired all of a sudden, even though Whiskey was the one who just worked. 

“Yeah, sure,” Whiskey says and takes the keys without question. 

Whiskey’s hand reaches over the seat and he massages the back of Kent’s neck. 

“Did you sleep okay?” Whiskey asks. 

“Must not have,” Kent shrugs.

He can see the concern reading on Whiskey’s face but he wants this to be perfect. He wants everything to be good,and to be fine. He wants the perfect summer he’d imagined, so he just keeps smiling.

They walk in the front door, Whiskey sets down a paper bag of fast food on the table. 

“I’m gonna get changed,” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah, me too,” Kent agrees.

Whiskey gets changed in the closet, it’s a habit from his first year when he had a roommate. Kent stands in front of the dresser pulling on a pair of his basketball shorts and a t-shirt. 

“Do you wanna watch a movie or something?” Whiskey calls. 

He walks out into the bedroom and wraps his arms around Kent’s shoulders. 

Kent nods, “Sure.”

Whiskey holds Kent’s hand, picks up the takeout bag from the table and plops down on the couch. 

“Come on,” Whiskey gestures to his lap. 

Kent feels meek as he crawls onto the couch and curls up against Whiskey’s chest. He drops an onion ring into Kent’s mouth. Whiskey has his hand on Kent’s shoulder and he’s tracing circles over the t-shirt. He does this almost absentmindedly at this point, Kent loves it. 

Kent doesn’t deserve it. 

Whiskey has the TV remote in his hand, scrolling through netflix. Maybe if he can bury himself far enough in Whiskey’s chest, he can out-run the doubts that surge through his mind. 

Whiskey’s hands are threading through Kent’s hair as he clicks on a John Mulaney special that they’ve seen before. Kit jumps up into Kent’s lap and Kent pats her head. It’s good, he hopes it’s good, he hopes he’s good enough. He wants to be good enough. 

“Do you want to go to bed?” Kent asks. 

“Are you tired?” Whiskey knits his brows together. 

“No, I just meant, maybe you wanted to…” Kent shrugs.

“Oh?” Whiskey says, “We don’t have to.”

“Why?” Kent says, suddenly worried that he’s done something wrong. 

“You look tired,” Whiskey says, “You’ve got bags under your eyes, baby,” Whiskey kisses the top of Kent’s head. 

Kent  _ knows  _ that Whiskey loves him for way more than just sex, but when he gets like this (and he does have enough emotional intelligence to realize he’s in kind of a slump), sometimes he feels like that’s the only thing he can offer, like if he doesn’t offer it he’s going to get left behind. 

“Hey,” Whiskey kisses the top of his head, “Baby, hey,” he smooths out the hair on top of his head, “I love you,” Whiskey says, “But we don’t have to.”

By all accounts, this is Whiskey saying  _ “hey, i love you, we don’t have to have sex for me to keep loving you, _ ” but Kent can’t shake that aching feeling that this means that Whiskey doesn’t want him. Kent doesn’t know how to keep people in his life, and he wants Whiskey to be in his life forever. 

Kent falls asleep on the couch, he only wakes up when he feels Whiskey hoisting him over his shoulder and carrying him down the hallway, and because Kent’s so tired and groggy when all of this is happening, he just rests his head on Whiskey’s shoulder and keeps his eyes closed as Whiskey gently sets him down on the bed. His eyes flutter open just enough to see Whiskey pulling a blanket over Kent and then turning off the light. The bed dips as Whiskey slides in beside him. Kent feels the weight of his boyfriend draping over him. Whiskey’s head is tucked into the crook of his neck, his calf pressed against Kent. 

“Good night, love,” Whiskey whispers into his ear.. 

Kent leaves before Whiskey in the morning, but he gets home before noon since he only has a quick gym session with his trainer. Whiskey’s long gone for work and won’t be home for a couple of hours. Kent decides to watch some video before Whiskey gets home, he sets up the Canucks game on his laptop, opens the video file his coach sent him and he pulls out a notepad to scribble down anything he thinks is important. 

His phone buzzes halfway through the first. 

**Whiskey:** **hey, there’s this thing at the club tonight. It’s for the kids, it’s basically like a dinner thing where I give them a certificate to say they completed their first round of lessons and I’ve gotta go, do you want to come?**

Kent thinks for half a second, looking up at the video, he frowns. It’s weird not to show, or is it weirder to show? Does Whiskey actually want him there or is he inviting him to be , polite? 

**Kent:** **yeah, I’ll be there.**

 **Whiskey:** **meet me there at five. It’s semi-formal.**

 **Kent:** **np. Ily**

 **Whiskey:** **< 3**

He looks down at the heart on his phone.  _ He loves you.  _ He tells himself,  _ for how long?  _ He shakes his head and bites down on the inside of his cheek. 

He gets up and walks over to the closet. He’ll wear a short sleeve button up and a pair of black jeans, that seems right. He lays his clothes out on the bed and walks into the bathroom. He runs a lukewarm shower since the air around him is already so hot. He cranks his playlist, because if the music is loud enough, then that’s something to focus on. 

He should go back to therapy. He knows he can call, do skype sessions, find someone in Arizona, that it wouldn’t be a big deal. But that’s admitting defeat, isn’t it? Going back to therapy is saying, to some degree,  _ I’m not okay,  _ and he so desperately wants to be okay. He so desperately wants to stay okay. 

He gets out of the shower, his head feels a little clearer. Not grimy with sweat anymore, he smells like old spice body wash. That’s something at least. 

He walks around the apartment feeling just a little hollow.  _ He loves you, for how long? For how long? For How Long?  _ He opens his phone and drafts an e-mail twice, “ _ I think I’d like to start regular sessions again,”  _ is all he ends up with by the end of it. He drags his hand through his hair and takes a sharp breath, pours a glass of water. 

The party is fine. Whiskey hands about a dozen kids a certificate in a frame and they all hug him and they love him and the buffet serves chicken parm and they play the cha-cha slide. Kent drifts through it. Sitting next to Whiskey, telling a hockey story to a parent,smiling at that kid from the parking lot, everything blurs together.  _ How long does this last? How long can this last?  _

“Come with me,” Whiskey walks up behind him near the end of the night. The sun has just set so the sky’s a hazy shade of purple. Kent follows him out towards the golf course. They’re enveloped in shadow, there are no lights over the course. Whiskey slips his hand into Kent’s, Kent looks around quickly, checking over his shoulder. Then he hates himself for it. If Whiskey was with someone else, would they even have to sneak around? Does he want that? Kent doesn’t want to hold him back. 

Whiskey’s hand rests gently on Kent’s bicep. 

“What’s going on with you?” Whiskey’s voice comes out gentle. 

Kent turns his head away, because he doesn’t want anyone to worry about him and it breaks his heart that he’s made Whiskey do that. 

“I’m okay,” Kent says. 

“No one who’s actually okay has ever said  _ I’m okay,  _ while looking like you look right now” Whiskey says. 

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Kent says. 

Whiskey slips his hand into Kent’s again and they start walking. Whiskey seems to know where he’s going, Kent has no idea, but he’ll follow, he’ll follow while he’s still allowed. 

“How long can this last?” Kent finally blurts and he feels tears stinging at the edges of his eyes. 

“What?”

“I just,” Kent takes a sharp breath, “I love you,” Kent says. 

“I love you too,” Whiskey answers like it’s the simplest fact in the world. 

“No,” Kent says, “I really love you and I just… It’s scary,” is all Kent can manage to say. 

Whiskey takes both of Kent’s hands into his own and holds them between their chests. 

“Kent,” Whiskey says, “I’m in love with you. I’ll tell you that over and over again, as many times as you need me to.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Kent says. 

“I will though.”

Kent swallows hard, “It’s just… I wouldn’t blame you if you…” 

Whiskey’s hand comes up to wipe a tear from Kent’s cheek that he didn’t even know was there. 

“Just tell me, okay?” Whiskey says, “Tell me what you’re feeling, we have all the time in the world, okay? No one’s looking for us, we don’t have anywhere to be.”

So they sit in the rough grass beside a water trap and Kent rests his head on Whiskey’s shoulder and Whiskey wraps his arms around Kent and Kent finally says it. 

“It’s just been a really weird couple of days, and not because of anything you’ve done. You’re perfect and I love you and I guess that’s why I’m so scared that one day you’re going to decide you don’t love me back.”

“Why?’ Whiskey asks, “Baby,” he says, and Kent can feel the sadness in his voice as he launches forward and smothers Kent with a hug.

“It hasn’t been that long,” Kent says, “Six months and we already moved in together. It feels right, like I want to spend everyday with you and cook together and argue over who’s going to clean the bathroom and drive you to work and buy you ice cream when you’re dad’s a dick.”

“And that’s what we’re doing,” Whiskey says, “And I am so happy?”

“But will you always be?” And Kent knows it’s not a fair question to ask, “I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, “You shouldn’t have to hide for me,” Kent says, “Y’know? And I feel  _ bad  _ that you have to, because you could still be with Rachel, or you could get with Lia because she clearly likes you and you wouldn’t have to sneak off and you could hold hands and you could have kids if that’s what you wanted to do-”

Whiskey interrupts him, “I don’t want that,” he says simply, “You’re not holding me back from doing anything I have ever wanted to do.”

And then Whiskey kisses him, gentle and on the lips and their cheeks press together and Whiskey whispers against his skin, “I don’t need people to see that. This is ours,” Whiskey says. 

“You know, I thought you’d be fighting with me by now,” Kent chuckles to himself. 

“Why?” Whiskey shakes his head. 

“I don’t know, just… that’s what happens when you dump all your feelings on someone, right?”

Whiskey shakes his head. 

“I wanted this summer to be perfect and I’m a disaster, so it’s not and I’m so sorry,” Kent says. 

Whiskey just keeps shaking his head, “You are so hard on yourself. You spent the entire season telling me that I was good, that I shouldn’t beat myself up. We’re not perfect, but we don’t need to be. I’m so happy, babe. With  _ you. _ ”

“I should text my therapist,” Kent laughs bitterly. 

“You really should,” Whiskey joins him in laughing. 

He scoots forward and rolls up his work slacks so that he can dip his feet in the little pond water trap. Kent follows suit and rests his head on Whiskey’s shoulder. 

Kent knows he has big feelings, he knows that he blows things out of proportion and he knows that his brain jumps to the worst case scenario before he considers any other possibilities. His flaws are obvious and loud. Whiskey puts his hand on Kent’s thigh. 

“I know that the advice is to wait a year before you move in with someone,” Whiskey says, “That you should know everything about them before you do, but I’m so happy that you’re here,” he squeezes Kent’s knee. 

“I’m happy too,” Kent says, “I really am. I’m just also… kind of scared at the same time.”

“That’s okay.”

They lay down next to the pond and look up at the stars, Kent uses Whiskey’s chest as a pillow and Whiskey runs his thumb down the side of Kent’s cheek. 

“Y’know, I like these kids,” Whiskey says, “but I don’t think I’ll ever want my own.”

Kent looks up at him, “Really?”

“Well it’s just… you said that thing about having kids and that’s not something I think I’d miss.”

“Kids are a lot, Kent says.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey agrees, “A puppy though,” he smirks, “Now that I could get behind.”

“We live in an apartment,” Kent points out. 

“A man can hope,” Whiskey squeezes Kent’s hand.

“You’re my favourite person,” Kent says, dumb and dopey and so overly simplistic, but it’s the only thing he can think to say to Whiskey in this moment. 

“There is no one I would rather spend the summer with,” Whiskey says. 

“I’m so afraid of you changing your mind about that all of a sudden,” Kent admits, “Like the more things you learn about me, the more you’ll hate me.”

“There is nothing about you that I hate. So even if,by the end of the summer, I hate you a million times more than I did at the start, I’m still not going to hate you even a little bit.”

“Stats class?” Kent teases. 

“Hey!” Whiskey says, mock offended, “I passed.”

“I think we oughtta thank Tango for that one, babe.”

“You might have a point,” Whiskey laughs. 

He rolls over a little so he’s facing Kent directly, “I used to hate it here,” Whiskey muses out loud, “I could just feel my dad here so often, like it was his thing, like I could tell he’d rather me get more into tennis or golf than hockey. But I feel like I’m more grown up now,” Whiskey says, “I know it sounds dumb but I feel like I grew up when we started going out.”

“You can’t give me all that credit,” Kent says. 

“No,” Whiskey acknowledges, “But…” he just sighs, “So I don’t know what the future’s gonna be. But I want it to be with you,” Whiskey says. 

Kent nods, “Yeah, me too.”

“So can you please promise that you’ll tell me when you get down?”

Kent nods again, a wordless answer is all he can manage. 

“Even if you think it’s dumb and small, okay? I want to know. And I promise I’ll do the same thing for you.”

“You’re so smart,” Kent says. 

“I love you,” Whiskey says back, “And you deserve it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is your reminder that I am not necessarily a ~good~ writer and there is not really a sensical plot, but this was the big emotional moment and the rest of this (not too much more it's just a short lil fic) is about being in love and talking about the future and love not curing everything but it's also pretty nice to have


	5. My eyes want you more than a melody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no plot just being in love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from sunfower vol 6 by hary styles

The early July sun reflects off of the water of the pool, and Kent Parson is happy. He has a pair of sunglasses over his eyes and he’s laying on a lounge chair in a pair of black swim trunks, he has New York Mets cap shielding his eyes from the sun. His shoulders are a little sunburnt but he’s slathered the sun screen on today to make sure it doesn’t get any worse. 

Whiskey was here five minutes ago, taking his break in between lessons to sit with Kent and tell him all about the little girl who took precisely one lesson to start kicking his ass. 

“I swear, she needs a better instructor, for her own good. Nothing to do with the fact I’m embarrassed.” he had smiled. 

And Kent had humoured him, shaking his head and laughing. They sat together, talking, Whiskey finished a glass of water and then looked down at his watch, he’d gotten up quickly, “Gonna be late,” and his hand had ghosted over the top of Kent’s forehead, a kiss for when they can’t actually kiss. 

Kent can still feel where Whiskey’s fingers had brushed his hairline, and god, oh god, he’s in love. 

He knows that, of course. Whiskey knows that, he’ll tell him every day and Kent is trying to really internalize it when he hears it back, therapy advice. It’s working, well enough.

He hears a splash, feels a couple water droplets hit his chair. One of the things he’s learned coming to work with Whiskey is that there’s a group of about 25 kids who just run wild in the mornings and afternoons, Kent keeps meaning to ask Whiskey if that’s how he spent his summers too, it’s a cute image.

“Don’t bother the grown ups!” he squints his eyes open and sees one of the club attendants walking past the pool and scolding the little girl who’s just landed, what, in Kent’s opinion, was a pretty sweet cannonball. 

“I’m very sorry Mr. Parson,” the attendant in question looks politely apologetic. 

“Ah, don’t even worry,” Kent says. 

“Really,” she insists, “We like to tell the kids not to splash in the pool.”

Kent looks over at the little girl, she’s frowning like she’s just gotten in trouble. 

“Is this like, an official rule?” Kent raises an eyebrow. 

“No,” she answers, “It’s more so that the guests can enjoy lounging by the pool.”

Kent looks around, he is the only person here aside from the kid. 

“Well in that case,” Kent stands up, he knocks his own hat off his head and runs towards the edge of the pool. He holds his knees to his chest as he launches himself into the deep end. He comes up and gasps for air. 

The attendant looks flustered, but smiles at Kent as she moves on. 

“Thanks,” the kid says, she’s missing her two front teeth. 

“I needed to work on my cannonball anyway,” Kent says as he hoists himself to sit on the edge of the pool with his legs dangling into the water. 

“I’m Sara!” she says,“Will you watch my cannonball?” she asks. 

“Sure, why not,” Kent shrugs. 

“Epic!” she grins and swims over to the ladder. He watches her jump with the entire force of her body. 

“You definitely splashed me,” he smiles at her and she beams. 

Two boys walk past the fenced in pool area wearing polo shirts on top of swim trunks. 

“Kyle!” Sara shouts, “This is Mr. Parson, he’s watching my cannonballs.”

“Epic!” the boy (probably Kyle) answers, “Will you watch ours?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Kent answers, “you don’t have to call me Mr. Parson, though.”

“What can we call you,” the other boy asks. 

“Kent,” he shrugs, “My friends call me Parser.”

The boys run on the pool deck, Kent doesn’t tell them to stop since running on wet concrete is one of life’s simple pleasures. 

He spends the next hour judging a cannonball contest, teaching the kids how to do a swan dive and keeping time to see who can hold their breath the longest. The kids have their heads underwater when he notices Whiskey leaning over the fence. He’s wearing one of those white cloth headbands to keep his hair out of his face and there’s sweat on his brow, it shouldn’t be hot, but it is. 

“I see you made some friends,” Whiskey says. 

Sara’s the first to come up gasping for air. 

“Shoot!” she says. 

“Nice try,” Kent smiles, “You’ve got the better cannonball though, don’t tell the boys.”

“Hi Connor!” Sara shouts. 

“Hey kiddo!” Whiskey smiles. 

He doesn’t bother unlatching the gate, just jumps over the fence onto the pool deck and stands behind Kent. His hand gently brushes the back of Kent’s head. 

“So do they just let kids run around unsupervised?” Kent mutters at Whiskey. 

“Nah, they have Jenny,” Whiskey jerks his head towards an older woman who Kent hadn’t noticed up until this point. She is wearing quite possibly the biggest hat Kent has ever seen, and she has her face buried in a romance novel. 

“How long, Parser! Oh hi Connor!” Kyle emerges from the water next, the other boy pops up soon after. 

“A minute 21, impressive,” Kent says. 

Whiskey lets out a low whistle. 

“I think you’re mom’s gonna be here soon, Sara,” Whiskey says. 

“One more cannonball?” she asks. 

“Ah, go ahead,” Whiskey winks at her. 

The boys climb out of the pool soon after, Jenny keeps one eye on them and one eye on her book as they run to the changeroom.

“I’m off the clock,” Whiskey says, “You wanna do something fun?”

“Like what?” Kent asks. 

“‘Borrow’ my dad’s golf cart,” Whiskey smirks. 

“Dude,” Kent says, “Aren’t you worried about what the snobs would think?”

“No one’s on the course, it’s Tuesday and it’s too hot.”

“Okay,” Kent says, “I’m in.”

“Kids like you,”Whiskey says while Kent towels off. 

“It’s literally too easy to make a kid think you’re cool. You just have to not be lame as hell,” Kent says. 

“Well I think it’s cute.”

Kent pulls his shirt on and covers his chlorine soaked curls with his hat. 

“I really have to get you a diamondbacks hat,” Whiskey knocks his shoulder into Kent’s. 

“Gross, no way,” Kent fake gags. 

Whiskey twirls his dad’s keys around his fingers as they walk towards the fairway. A couple kids are over by the driving range but no one’s actually on the course. 

There are acres upon acres of grass, there are a million places they can go without being found. 

“I hate golf courses,” Whiskey says, climbing into the driver’s seat, “There are so many other things this fucking grass could be, but nope. Golf.”

He steps on the gas pedal and Kent has to clutch the roof to keep from flying out. 

He looks over at Whiskey, looking over at him, grinning, that stupid headband. 

The grass is well maintained to an extent that Kent actually feels bad for whoever takes care of it. 

“So do your teammates have kids or something?” Whiskey asks, the golf cart parked underneath the shade of a pine try, Kent and Whiskey lying beside it in the grass. 

“A couple, none that I’m really buds with, though,” he shrugs, “I do have a little sister.”

“Woah, why didn’t I know that?” Whiskey says. 

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to like… hide it from you,” Kent apologizes quickly. 

“It’s okay, I’m not mad, just like… I forget that I don’t know everything about you sometimes,” Whiskey grabs his hand and squeezes, a smile on his face. Kent relaxes. 

“She’s not like… my full sister,” Kent mumbles. 

Whiskey nods, “How old is she.”

“She was born when I was 14, so she’s almost 13 now,” Kent smiles fondly, “We don’t really,” He starts and stops, “I mean we haven’t hung out in a long time. My step-dad… it’s not like he doesn’t like me or anything, but y’know, I was like a fully fledged human being when she was born. I literally left my mom’s house the next year to go play for Rimouski. I was 13 when they got married, I don’t think I ever really expected him to be like… my dad or whatever,” Kent shrugs, “Sorry,” Kent says, “It doesn’t matter.”

Whiskey seems to study him, Kent wonders, briefly, if this is another thing he shouldn't have brought up. 

“What’s her name?”

“Hailey,” Kent says, “Hailey McNamara, it’s my mom’s last name,” Kent says. 

Whiskey’s laying back, playing with Kent’s fingers on his chest. 

“Not your step-dads?”

“I think they hyphenated it when she started kindergarten, McNamara-Rivera, but uh…” Kent trails off, Whiskey looks over at him, all squinty eyed from the sun, “My mom kind of didn’t want to make the same mistake she made with my last name,” Kent mutters.

“You don’t have to,” Whiskey says, “But your dad?” Whiskey asks. 

“I think he started off trying to do the right thing,” Kent says. 

Whiskey rolls over, rests his chin on Kent’s chest and looks up at his face. God Kent’s in love, it hits him sometimes. Whiskey looking up at him, undivided attention. Laying in this stupid golf course as the dry heat envelops them. Whiskey’s hair is flopping over the cotton headband, gel pretty much useless at this point in the heat. 

“They were like 20 when my mom got pregnant and I don’t think either of them was really ready. But he was trying to do the whole dad thing. I uh,” Kent looks down at Whiskey’s head on his chest, he runs his finger over his hairline, “Don’t remember everything but he bounced around jobs a lot and we moved a lot, I remember that part. He left when I was 5. It was weird, I don’t remember a fight and I usually remember those. He just never came home from work one day,” Kent shakes his head. 

Whiskey looks at him like he’s not sure what to say, like he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing, and Kent appreciates it, because he hates it when people say dumb shit about his dad. 

“Sometimes I wonder if I should change my last name,” Kent says. 

“To your mom’s?”

There’s a very small part of Kent’s brain that wants to make a  _ “no I want to steal yours,”  _ joke, but he bites it down. 

He nods, “My dad just peaced out, my mom was a whole fucking superhero. I genuinely have not thought about him in years,” Kent lies, “Okay wait,” he corrects himself, “That’s not all the way true.”

“What happened?”

“So he left when I was a kid, right? And my mom picked up so much of the slack that I was hardly ever like  _ god I wish I had a dad to do this with _ . Just the fact that she managed to get me into hockey is fucking impressive,” Kent says, “And people kind of started giving me stuff when they realized I was good but she’s the one who paid for those first seasons especially before she married my step-dad. Anyway, once I started getting scouted by Q teams we decided that we’d just not mention that my step-dad was a step-dad, not to scouts or anyone. Because it’s fucked up, but when they scout you they’re not just looking for your talent, they’re looking at your life and your character, and fuck, it sucks,” Kent shakes his head bitterly, runs his hand through his hair, “But having a single mom is one of the things that some teams see as a red flag.”

“That’s fucked,” Whiskey says emphatically. 

“Yeah. It wasn’t like a big deal when I was in junior because my step-dad was around and they don’t do as much research as if I had been playing pro or something. But then I got to my draft interviews and…” Kent trails off, “I’m technically not allowed to tell people this.”

“I’ll make sure to stay anonymous when I sell your secrets,” Whiskey teases.

Kent kisses the top of his head, “I had to do a bunch of interviews before the draft, everyone does, even with teams that have basically no chance of getting them with their pick. Like me and Jack were going to go one and two and I remember we showed up to this dumb fucking hotel and I ended up in a conference room with the Lightning even though they didn’t even have a first round pick. If a team wants you for an interview your agent basically makes you do it, right?”

“I think I dodged a bullet on the whole draft thing,” Whiskey laughs. 

Kent nods, “It was the worst, and there was really no point in being there. Like we knew one of us was going to Vegas and the other one was going to Ottawa at number two… well, we thought,” Kent says dryly, “I got to this interview with the Aeros and they had the fourth pick so I was still trying pretty hard, I wasn’t gonna like blow them off or anything, ‘cause GMs talk and I didn’t want anyone to think I’m a dick… and fuck, I’m sorry I keep talking,” Kent says. 

“No,” Whiskey insists, “Your voice is like, my favourite sound in the whole world. Tell me what happened?”

Kent sits up, propping himself up on his elbows, he sighs for two reasons. The first, his boyfriend seems to make it his mission in life to let Kent know how amazing he thinks he is, the second, he hates this story. 

“So I sat down and the GM was in the room and I don’t know how to describe him other than hockey man. But they asked me some stuff about my life, what I liked to do. Draft interviews are always weird because they almost never mention hockey. But I wasn’t expecting him to look at me and say  _ ‘What does the name Henry Parson mean to you,’  _ And obviously I wasn’t going to lie so I said,  _ “that’s my biological father.”  _ And they kind of rolled their eyes and I guess they’d fucking researched my dad because they told me where he was and all about his new family and they asked me if I knew about that and they told me how  _ unwise  _ it is to keep secrets and like… fuck,” he says, “I wasn’t keeping that secret I literally had no clue where the fuck my dad was.”

Whiskey’s turned from attentive and invested,but mostly calm, to entirely fucking livid. 

“That’s fucked, that’s so fucked up, what’s the fucking point of doing something like that?”

“They were trying to throw me off. I think,” Kent says, “I really don’t know, I never got an explanation. But I fucking hate the Houston Aeros now, I never want to lose to them, because I feel like I lost to them that day. I kept my cool, mostly. It just felt like I was so alone, I guess because I was. I had like five minutes before I had to go talk to some other team. It was fucked.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” Whiskey has his hand resting on Kent’s stomach. 

Kent shakes his head, “Not your fault.”

“I know. I’m pissed about it though, you were a kid,” Whiskey’s shaking his head. 

“I knew what I was getting into,” Kent says. 

“That’s not a reason for them to do that. What business was it of theirs to find your fucking deadbeat dad.”

Kent smiles and laughs at the angry love of his life. 

“It’s okay,” Kent says, “Who doesn’t have daddy issues?” he goes for the easy joke

“You were a baby,” Kent can see the hurt in Whiskey’s eyes, he sits up fully and he hugs Whiskey and Whiskey wraps himself around Kent entirely.

“You deserved better than that.”

“You give it to me,” Kent mumbles into his boyfriend’s shoulder. 

“You’re so fucking sappy,” Whiskey kisses Kent’s neck,dropping his hand to squeeze Kent’s arm. 

“It just solidified for me how much I don’t need my dad in my life, y’know? I was in that room because of everything my mom did for me,” he looks down at his hands, “We don’t… I don’t want to bug her, she has Hailey and my step-dad to worry about.”

“I doubt she’d ever accuse you of bugging her.”

Kent shrugs, “There’s still a lot of things I need to tell her. I don’t know how.”

“Whenever your ready,” Whiskey squeezes his arm. 

“You’re a lot braver than I am,” Kent mumbles. 

“Not coming out doesn’t make you not-brave,” Whiskey says. 

Kent’s fingers are picking at a blade of grass. 

“Feels like it,” he shrugs, “Zimms and Bittle, that was brave.”

“I dunno if it was brave or they were just too in love to care.”

“I’m that in love with you,” Kent points out. 

“Yeah, that’s why you want me to have a career, dummy,” Whiskey hits his arm. 

Kent smirks. 

“We don’t have to be in love the way they are. We get to do our own thing.”

“Stop being all wise and shit,” Kent shakes his head, grinning. 

“M’not wise, I just think a lot.”

“Yeah,” Kent snorts, “I fucking know.”

And they both laugh, warm and comfortable. Something inside of Kent unknots itself that afternoon, as they lay in the shade. Whiskey never stops touching him, his hand is on his arm, or he presses their shoulders together, Kent lies down and Whiskey crosses their ankles together. And he thinks about the way Whiskey looked at him when he said “we can do our own thing,” is burned into the back of Kent’s eyelids, the devotion and sincerity. Because Zimms just got engaged, and he’s trying not to be jealous of Zimms because they live different lives and they want different things. But one of Kent’s biggest insecurities is the idea that he might be falling behind. Like in the whole being a grown up thing. Getting engaged is just one of those things you’re supposed to do to prove that you’re an adult. And he’s talked to his therapist about it and she’s told him it’s normal, even healthy, for people who can’t come out early in their lives to experience life milestones at a later age, so when Kelli and Swoops got engaged, Kent only stewed for a few minutes. But now Zimms and Bittle… it’s starting to feel like a him problem. 

But Whiskey has his head resting against Kent’s collarbone and he makes Kent pose for a selfie that he sends to Tango and Ford and Kent sees the most content look on Whiskey’s face as they do a whole lot of nothing for the entire afternoon. They just lie there letting their skin soak up the skin. Not worried about being seen or found out, just existing. And Kent thinks that he doesn’t need to get engaged to Whiskey, that’s not who they are. But he might tell his mom about him. 

“You’re quiet,” Whiskey says. 

“Love you,” Kent answers, and Whiskey relaxes his head against Kent’s body once more, “So much,” Kent’s voice is low, soft as he lies in his own comfort, “You’re so pretty,” Kent says. His eyes are drifting closed. He feels Whiskey’s breath slowing, the comfortable rise and fall of his chest, “I like your stupid headband,” he mumbles, fingers scratching lightly against Whiskey’s scalp. 

“I know, you keep touching my hair,” Whiskey says, voice grumbly in the way it gets when he’s tired, “Want me to bring it home,” he smirks. 

“Fuck off,” Kent smiles, though he thinks to himself that he wouldn’t mind that so much, “It’s nice to see you without your hair gel.”

“If I wasn’t wearing the headband I’d look like a sweaty rat.”

“Mmm, suits you,” Kent mumbles. 

He closes his eyes because they feel heavy and there’s no reason for him not to and everything just feels so  _ nice _ . The sun makes him tired and the ground is soft and Whiskey lying on his chest is better than any blanket he could ever ask for. 

He wakes up and the sun is in a different spot in the sky and he opens his eyes halfway and… shit. Someone’s standing in front of them. He sees the long shadow cast over their bodies, Kent hears him clear his throat. 

Whiskey rubs his eyes, Kent looks up. It’s his luck that he finds himself staring right at Stephen Whisk. s

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will kent call Whiskey's dad "Mr. Sir?" stay tuned to find out


	6. thanks for lovin' me cause you're doing it perfectly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> barbeque time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i apologize for the cliffhanger lol. title is from whataya want from me by adam lambert

Kent bolts up, Whiskey still groggy. There’s no plausible deniability here, Whiskey’s arm slung across his chest, Kent’s hand had been wrapped around Whiskey’s arm. He feels his throat getting tight as he moves away from Whiskey. 

Whiskey runs his hand through his hair as he sits up, less tense than Kent.He wants Whiskey’s dad to like him, that’s the most annoying part.

“Connor, you didn’t answer my text.” Stephen cuts to the point. He very pointedly does not look down until Kent’s sitting a good six inches away from Whiskey.

“Sorry,” Whiskey rubs his eyes, “I didn’t even know you were here today.”

“Stopped by on my way home from work,” Stephen says, “Your mother wants to invite you to dinner,” Stephen says. 

“And Kent,” Whiskey says, making it so clear that he won’t come if Kent’s not there. Which Kent appreciates but also freaks out about because… dinner with the parents. Even if the parents are acting like Kent’s just his roommates, it’s still kind of fucking terrifying. 

“Yes,” Stephen says instead of putting up a fight. Kent doesn’t know if they ever really fight. If they ever raise their voices at each other. From what he’s seen, they just drift near each other, clearly having feelings but never expressing them, leaving Whiskey to guess if his parents are angry or proud or disappointed. 

Whiskey’s inched closer to Kent. It feels possessive in a way, proving to Whiskey’s dad that he’s here with Kent. 

Kent feels… well he’s not sure how, it’s strange and complicated because he knows Whiskey’s dad isn’t going to out him, because that would out his son at the same time, so that’s not what the fear settling in his stomach is from. And he’s not afraid of Stephen himself, maybe in the abstract, (rich men in suits are Kent’s own personal form of hell) but he’s pretty sure he could take him if he had to. It hits him as Whiskey puts his hand on top of Kent’s; this is a normal kind of afraid. Not an “in the closet” kind of afraid or a “i’m going to get hate-crimed” kind of afraid, no, this is a, “What if his mom doesn’t like me,” kind of afraid. 

And that revelation makes him more than a little giddy, that this summer has been so good to him, that it’s letting him have these things. 

“Mom’s making ribs,” Stephen says. 

Whiskey looks over at Kent, Kent nods his head so slightly that only Whiskey sees. 

“Sure, we’ll come, then,” Whiskey says.

“Well, we should head out soon then, you know your mother doesn’t like when people are late for dinner.”

Whiskey manages a dry chuckle, “I know, dad.”

“So, I walked all the way out here to find you two, wanna give me a lift back to the parking lot?” Stephen jerks his head towards the golf cart. 

“Sure,” Whiskey says. 

And Stephen’s chill, he’s careful, he lets Kent ride shotgun which Kent wasn’t quite expecting. If they were alone, Kent would have thrown his arm around Whiskey, or at least rested his hand on the back of his seat. But they’re not, so Kent keeps his hands folded politely in his lap. It’s one thing for Stephen to know they’re together, it’s another, Kent thinks, for him to see it. 

“You’re getting a bit of a tan there, huh, Parson?” Whiskey’s dad comments. 

“All that time by the pool,” Kent smiles. 

Whiskey’s told him before that he has two smiles. One’s looser, natural. This smile is one that Kent makes himself show. People like it when you smile at them. Kent knows how to get people to like him. He looks over at Stephen and he’s pretty sure, though not certain, that they’re both smiling in the same way. 

Whiskey returns the golf cart and the three men walk towards the parking lot. Kent pats his pocket just to make sure his keys are still there, they are. Stephen puts his hand on Whiskey’s shoulder, briefly, then he takes a step away. Whiskey raises an eyebrow, moves closer to Kent.

“We’ll uh, follow you?” Whiskey asks. 

“See you there,” Stephen says. 

They walk to their seperate cars, Kent gets into the driver's seat, Whiskey climbs in next to him.

“I can text him and cancel, I know you didn’t really get much time to think about it,” Whiskey puts his hand on top of Kent’s. 

Kent shakes his head, “I want to go if you do too.”

Whiskey nods, “They’re still my parents, y’know?” he says, “Like,” he sighs, “Not perfect, but I love them, I still want to spend time with them. Is that weird?”

“No,” Kent says, “It makes sense, I promise,” He slips his hand into Whiskey’s and squeezes, “I’m not perfect and you still want to hang out with me,”

“Whiskey looks over at him, the fondness in his eyes will never get old to Kent. 

“I dunno about that. Pretty perfect from where I’m sitting.”

“Shut up,” Kent says through a smile. 

They turn on the stereo, but low so they can still hear each other talking.

“So,” Kent says, “Your mom make good barbeque or what?” 

“It’s so good,” Whiskey says, “Just the smell alone,” he leans back in his seat, all dramatic, “It’s what I dream of between bland dining hall meals.”

Kent whistles, low, “I wouldn’t miss it for anything then.”

They’ve been living off of pre-packaged meals that Kent’s trainer has him buy, he’s looking forward to whatever Mrs. Whisk has planned. 

“Dad said she’s making ribs but she usually makes agua fresca in the summer and it’s so good. Like it’s just fruit and water but it’s  _ better  _ than that. My point is, there will be enough food to keep my dad’s mouth occupied,” Whiskey leans over the centre console and kisses Kent on the side of his face. 

“We can leave whenever you want,” Kent says. 

“I know, that’s why I’m okay with going.”

“And when we go,” Kent says, “Roommates?”

“Duh,” Whiskey says. 

Kent grins.

“Except,” Whiskey starts., “You’re okay if I tell my parents, right?”

“Don’t they already know?”

Whiskey sighs, scoffing a little bit as he does, “It’s stupid and complicated,” he rolls his eyes. 

“Say no more,” Kent says, “They’re your parents. Say whatever you need to say.”

“I meant it when I said you’re perfect,” Whiskey rests his head against the headrest. 

“You didn’t seem to think that last night when I left the oven on. You called me an attempted arsonist.”

“Well,” Whiskey says, “I wasn’t wrong.”

“I prefer accidental arsonist.”

“I prefer no arson at all, actually,” Whiskey says. 

Whiskey leans his head against the headrest and spends the rest of the drive stealing glances at Kent. Kent would be lying if he said he didn’t like the attention, knowing how much Whiskey likes looking at him. 

Kent’s driven down Whiskey’s street before, never with Whiskey in the passenger seat though. Every other time he’s been here, it’s been to come get Whiskey, to save him in some weird way. 

Whiskey grumbles when he sees a car in the driveway, “My grandparents are here,” he sighs. 

Kent squeezes Whiskey’s hand. 

He gives him the world’s quickest peck on the cheek, “Gross,” he says simply, “Stuff your face and you won’t have to talk to them.”

Whiskey rolls his eyes, smile on his face and opens his own door. 

“Good drive?” his dad asks Kent. 

Kent nods, “Yep,” he smiles. 

Stephen opens the door and Kent and Whiskey shuffle through the door, Kent a little more awkwardly than Whiskey. 

“Connor!” Both Kent and Whiskey spin around. Rachel is jumping up from the couch and launching herself at Whiskey. Whiskey catches her, the smile on his face is equal parts thrilled and confused. Her momentum causes them to spin a little bit and Whiskey squeezes her torso, his arms rest on her shoulders like he can’t believe he’s seeing her in person. 

“What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming home for the summer.”

“Ah,” she shrugs, “You know my mom always throws a party for the fourth. They’re in the backyard if you want to say hi.”

Kent’s not jealous of the way she hangs off of his shoulder. Not in the normal way at least. He doesn’t hate her, doesn’t think that she’s trying to steal his boyfriend, he just wants to be able to rest his head on Whiskey’s shoulder like Rachel is. 

“Let’s go say hi then,” Whiskey nods.

Kent follows awkwardly behind, hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts. He smells barbeque and there are people sitting on fancy lawn chairs with yellow cushions. There’s a firepit in the centre of the circle of chairs but no one’s burning anything yet. There’s a middle aged couple who Kent’s pretty sure are Rachel’s parents. An old man who bears a startling resemblance to Whiskey is holding a beer and standing next to Whiskey’s mom at the barbeque.There’s another couple, a little younger than Whiskey’s parents, Kent doesn’t recognize them at all. He watches Whiskey say hi to Rachel’s parents, shakes her dad’s hand and then he pulls over Kent. 

“This is Kent, we’re living together,” Whiskey says. 

“Nice to meet you, Kent,” Rachel’s mom has the same reassuring smile that Rachel wears so often. 

Her father nods his head in acknowledgement. The other couple’s sitting at the glass table next to the firepit and Whiskey introduces Kent to them too, neighbours, apparently. They’re nice enough, the husband knows who he is but not enough that he’s starstruck. 

Whiskey’s hand hovers near Kent the entire time. Whiskey answers questions about college and his season and Kent chimes in politely whenever it’s relevant. 

Whiskey’s grandparents are quiet, polite. Kent plays a game of cards with Whiskey’s grandma. They don’t say much other than when she’s explaining the rules. Kent likes it, it gives him something to do while Whiskey talks.

It’s not that Kent feels unwelcome, on the contrary, people are jumping up to offer him chairs, someone hands him a beer without him asking for one. 

“Rachel!” He hears Whiskey’s mom call, Rachel jumps up, “Honey could you bring the tray I left in the fridge out here,”

“Sure,” Rachel smiles. 

“I’ll help,” Kent stands up from his seat, leaving his beer on the table. 

“Oh,” Whiskey’s mom looks a little put off, as if she’s just remembered that he’s here, “You don’t have to do that.”

“I could use the extra hands,” Rachel says. 

“Well, if it’s not an inconvenience,” she says through a strange sort of smile. 

Kent follows Rach through a sliding door. She pours him a glass of water without him even asking. 

“Thanks,” he says. 

“S’just water,” she shrugs. She opens the fridge, “I’m glad you decided to come.”

“Oh,” Kent says, “Yeah, well, no biggie.”

“Ah, his parents can be a lot. I dated him too, remember.”

Kent must make a weird face because she’s backtracking. 

“Not that you… or, I mean.”

“It’s okay,” Kent says, “He told me that you know. I think I just forgot.”

“Right,” she says, “Well. I like you,” she says, “You’re cool and stuff.”

“And stuff,” Kent laughs. 

“Yeah. I mean you learned how to play that card game with his grandmother.”

“It’s confusing,” he admits. 

“Yeah, but you did it.”

She starts pulling things out of the fridge and putting them on the little clear tray Whiskey’s mom set aside. 

“You’ve got the ex-girlfriend/ current best friend seal of approval,” she says. 

“Thanks,” he smiles, looking down at the counter. 

“And I think Stephen likes you,” Rachel says, “In a weird way. He’s always been weird about Connor. His mom’s a bit trickier. No one’s ever quite good enough.”

“He deserves the best.”

She rolls her eyes, “Sappy, but cute. She’s just protective, y’know? My dad’s the same way about me especially after we had our simultaneous mental breakdowns,” she laughs bitterly. 

“He uh, told me a little bit about that.”

“Yeah,” she says, “I’m sorry if I messed him up for you.”

“Ha,” Kent says, “No, it’s not like I was exactly put together when I was 18.”

“Yeah,” Rachel smiles, “I was a mess, like such a big mess that I had to go do an inpatient program for months and I wasn’t allowed to see Connor and he wasn’t allowed to see me and when I got back he just looked so much worse than when I’d left. Y’know, without hockey?”

And… well, Kent can relate. He looks down at his hands, “He told me you convinced him to start playing again.”

“And Samwell,” she says, “It’s good for him. Minnesota’s good for me too. And Samwell and Minnesota play each other enough that we can hang out.”

Kent feels weird but Rachel seems like the kind of person who tries really hard to make sure that everyone feels included and in the loop. 

“Can you grab the pitcher?” she asks, stacking stuff onto the tree. 

“Gotcha,” Kent says, he picks up the pitcher from the fridge and grabs the stack of plastic cups from the counter. 

There’s another family in the backyard now, more neighbours, these ones have a kid with them, a toddler with a gap toothed smile sitting on his mother’s knee. 

Rachel sets down the plate and hugs the young looking mom, takes the baby off of her knee. 

“If this is just a friday, their fourth of july party must be nuts,” Kent says. 

Rachel laughs, “Our dads spent like a collective eight hundred bucks last year, so yeah,” she laughs. 

Whiskey sits next to him at dinner. His mom piles food onto his plate, a few ribs and some pasta salad and a cob of corn.

Whiskey puts his hands on top of Kent’s. 

“Let me,” he says and he slathers Kent’s corn with mayonnaise, chilli powder and cheese and then he squeezes some lime on top.

“I’ve eaten your tacos, I don’t trust you to top anything Mexican.”

Kent smirks, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, nobody notices, but Whiskey does kick him under the table. 

Kent makes it through dinner and it’s pleasant, not perfect, but pleasant. Everybody laughs with each other and the air gets cooler as the sun sets and Rachel’s still bouncing that baby on her knee. Whiskey makes a face at him across the table and Kent’s lungs twist themselves into knots watching that. Not wanting kids, apparently, doesn’t exclude him from weird baby fever or whatever this aching inside of him is. 

The thing is that Whiskey seems okay, he’s smiling and laughing in all the right places, at all the right inside jokes. And his brows are furrowed and he never looks quite at ease but it doesn’t look like he wants to crawl out of his own skin either. Kent wonders if he’s really good at pretending or if he’s actually just at ease here. And then an insecurity creeps in, so quietly and insidiously that Kent doesn’t even realize that’s what it is at first. Would Whiskey be happier if Kent weren’t here? If he just went home. Would his brows unknit if he had less things to worry about? If Kent weren’t reminding him of all the things he has to worry about? Because Kent’s starting to feel like he represents all of those things. Being gay, playing hockey, being gay and playing hockey. Does the way Whiskey gravitates towards Kent put him on edge more than it does at ease? He doesn’t say anything at dinner because everyone’s having such a good time and the food is delicious and the company is good and it’s not the time to worry Whiskey with the way his head’s spiralling. 

Whiskey puts his hand on his knee under the table, casual, careful. It’s brief, but Kent jumps anyway. Whiskey gives him a sideways look but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything while he helps Rachel clear the table, he doesn’t say anything when his parents bring out a tray of cut fruit for everyone to pick at while they play a card game. He doesn’t say anything when the couple with the baby heads home, or when Whiskey’s grandparents head to the guest bedroom after kissing their grandson tonight. 

“I’ll be seeing you again for a re-match,” his grandmother pats him on the cheek. 

“Don’t scare him, Abuela,” Whiskey kisses her on the cheek,smiling, holds out his arm to help her up the porch stairs into the house.

Whiskey is nice to babies and he loves his grandmother and how can Kent possibly deserve that? 

Stephen starts a fire and turns the radio on quiet and they sit around together. Rachel’s parents decide to walk home, Rachel promises she’ll head home later, and then it’s just the five of them in the backyard. Kent wonders what would happen if he made that spot on Whiskey’s lap his new seat. He doesn’t, but he can wonder. He sits in his own lawn chair with a bottle of bud light between his knees. There’s a normal sort of silence. Rachel’s curled up in the lawn chair with her phone screen lighting up her face. Whiskey’s dad pokes at the fire while his mom sits next to him. 

Whiskey clears his throat, he looks over at Kent and Kent knows instantly what he’s. asking. Kent gives a silent nod, he wouldn’t even think to give him any other answer. 

“I’ve got something to say,” Whiskey says to his parents more than anyone else, “It’s not a big deal and we don’t have to talk about it or anything but I do want you to know. And you probably already know but I just want to say it and it’s that Kent and I aren’t just roommates, we’re together. Dating. I’m his boyfriend. He’s my boyfriend,” Whiskey says, and he talks so quickly like he’s had the sentences in his head for a while, like he’s making sure no one has a space to interrupt what he’s saying.

Kent looks down at his hands and up at Whiskey. Whiskey looks like he’s bracing himself for whatever reaction’s about to come his way. Like he’s ready to get up and leave if that’s what he has to do. It’s his mom that speaks first.

“That’s fine,” she says, “It’s your life.”

Whiskey nods. 

Stephen speaks next, “You really didn’t have to say anything, son. We assumed.”

Kent flinches, but Whiskey doesn’t. 

“I wanted to confirm it for you then,” Whiskey says, it’s almost a challenge. 

“Thank you,” his mother says tersely and nods. 

“Cool,” Whiskey says. 

It’s not great but Whiskey’s face softens as he takes a sip of his beer. He’s cute, he’s hot, Kent wants to kiss him. Kent feels like he should say something. He just smiles awkwardly, he doesn’t have words, not for Whiskey’s parents at least. They sit there, quietly, it borders on awkwardness but it doesn’t ever quite plunge into unbearable. 

The parents stand up to head inside, “If you boys need somewhere to spend the night, you’re welcome here,” Stephen says. 

“Thanks dad,” Whiskey says, voice barely clearer than a mumble. 

Stephen claps his son on the shoulder, his hand hovers, hesitant and then he claps Kent on the shoulder.

“Put out the fire before you come in, or head home, whatever you decide.”

“Thanks dad,” Whiskey says. 

The screen door closes behind his parents and Whiskey lets out a breath and puts his face on Kent’s shoulder. Kent’s hand comes up, holding Whiskey’s back, holding him steady.

“Love you,” Whiskey says, not a whisper but he’s not saying it for anyone but Kent to hear. 

“Love you too,” Kent says. 

Rachel turns to Whiskey, her legs are pulled up against her chest as she sits in the lawn chair. 

“Get drunk and turn this fire into a public safety hazard?” She says. 

“Absolutely,” Whiskey answers, his arm still tucked around Kent’s waist. 

Rachel springs up from the chair and opens the cooler that’s still sitting beside the barbeque. She throws a beer at Kent another one at Whiskey. Whiskey walks over to the wood pile and picks out a couple of logs. He walks back over to the fire and gently sets them on top of the flames. Kent pays attention to the way the fire crackles, the way the flames start to envelop the wood. 

They drink quietly, Rachel curled in on herself watching the flames, Whiskey sitting on the ground at her feet, she reaches down to mess up his hair every now and then. Kent starts out sitting on a chair but he ends up with his head resting in Whiskey’s lap. He feels warm in all the ways he knows how. The fire heats his cheeks, it feels almost like a sunburn. The warmth in his chest when Whiskey’s hand glances over his arm, when Rachel laughs at Whiskey when he accidentally dribbles beer down his chin. The warmth in his head, fuzzy from warm beer and the bottle of gin that they’re passing around.

“You two are gross,” Rach says when Whiskey leans down to kiss the top of Kent’s head. 

Whiskey just smiles, warm, he shrugs, grabs the bottle of Gin from Rachel’s hands.

“Then I guess we’re gross,” he leans down to kiss Kent on the lips again. 

Rachel yawns. 

“Tired?” Whiskey asks. 

“Mmm, not really,” she says through a second yawn. 

“Yeah okay,” Whiskey snorts. 

Rach kicks Whiskey in the back and rolls her eyes. Kent feels his eyes drifting closed. Comfortable at peace. The fact that Whiskey’s parents are asleep inside, that his grandmother likes him, that Stephen had offered him a place to sleep, it just makes him feel peaceful. 

Rach falls asleep in her lawn chair, head falling against her chest. Whiskey stands up and gently takes the beer bottle out of her hands. He takes a sip of it and then dumps it out next to the cooler and sets it next to the other empties. Kent moves away from Rachel,takes off his flannel and drapes it over her. 

“Let her sleep for a minute,” Kent says.

Whiskey nods, “You’re sweet,” he wraps his arms around Kent’s waist pulls him in for a kiss. 

“I’m glad your here,” Whiskey says, voice muffled by the fabric of Kent’s t-shirt. 

“Me too,” Kent says, “I’m proud of you for telling your parents,” he continues. 

“It was kind of anticlimactic, honestly.”

Kent shrugs, “Still had to say it.”

Kent sits down in the grass, Whiskey sits behind him, lets Kent lean against his chest. 

“My grandma likes you,” Whiskey says. 

“Is that some kind of test? Like did I pass the grandma test?”

Whiskey shrugs, “I think I’m past caring what they think. But it’s nice. Like if she didn’t like you it wouldn’t matter to me because I like you but it’s cool.”

“I’m glad,” Kent says. 

“So do I get to meet your family one day?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent tenses up just a little bit, it’s enough for Whiskey to pause. 

But Kent just nods. 

“Hold on,” He says. 

He pulls his phone out of his shorts, he opens snapchat and plants a kiss on Whiskey’s lips, Whiskey’s hand cups Kent’s jaw as he snaps the picture. 

“Can I send this to Hailey?” Kent asks. 

“You have your little sister on snapchat?” Whiskey chuckles. 

“She’s 14, it’s all she uses.”

“Yeah,” Whiskey says. 

Kent taps the screen to add a text bar,  _ you think mom will let me have a plus one for thanksgiving? _ He types, he doesn’t give himself time to think before he hits send. 

“It’s a start,” Kent says, “I know she’s a good kid.”

“So uhh,” Whiskey says, “I’m in it with you for the long haul,” Whiskey mumbles. 

Kent breaks out into a grin, turns around and hugs Whiskey with so much force that they both fall into the grass. 

“Me too,” Kent says, “Whenever I imagine the future now, you’re in it.”

Kent’s laying on his side, Whiskey’s facing him. 

“My weird passive family doesn’t scare you?” Whiskey smirks. 

“Not even a little,” Kent answers instantly. 

Whiskey sighs slightly, “Maybe it just took them a few months to get used to the idea.”

“Yeah,” Kent agrees, “Your dad’s been nice to me the whole time I’ve been at the club. I think they’re trying.”

“A little at least. They’re probably always going to be allergic to feelings.”

“I understand where you get that from since meeting your dad.”

“So why are we laying in the grass again?” Whiskey asks. 

“I wanted to kiss you and we ended up here.”

“I’m tired,” he says, “And I’m pretty sure there are bugs hanging out in my hair by now.”

“Gross,” Kent kisses the tip of his nose and they sit up. 

Whiskey looks over at Rachel, “I don’t want to wake her up. She never sleeps this well,” 

“Then we’ll carry her home,” Kent says. 

Whiskey nods. He gently tucks Kent’s flannel under her arms and picks her up in his arms. She’s small, looks almost frail like this, as Whiskey scoops her up like she weighs less than his equipment bags. 

“Can you grab the gate?” Whiskey whispers. 

Kent nods, jogs ahead to unlatch the backyard gate. Rachel lives next door so they just have to walk across the front lawn. Their front door is open so Kent once again leads the way for Whiskey. Whiskey slides in after him. Kent hovers behind as Whiskey walks down the hall. Rachel is still fast asleep, muttering as she nuzzles against Whiskey’s chest. He pushes open a door just off of the entryway. Kent stands in the doorway, not wanting to intrude. He watches Whiskey sit on the edge of her bed, pull a blanket over top of her. The room is painted a light lilac and there’s a poster for an emo band that Kent’s never heard of taped to the closet door. He sees a picture frame on her nightstand, turns his attention back to Whiskey. He’s running his hand over her hair, gently pats her on the shoulder and stands up. 

“Good friend,” Kent whispers. 

“She deserves it,” Whiskey whispers back. 

Whiskey locks the door behind them, hands stuffed in his pockets. Kent puts his arm around him. 

The word  _ forever  _ keeps bouncing around Kent’s head and it’s the least terrifying recurring thought he’s ever had. A comforting thing that’s wormed it’s way into his brain. Forver. Whiskey forever. Connor forever. Them forever. Playing cards with his grandma forever. Holding his hand under the table forever. Wrapping his arm around his shoulders forever. Taking stupid selfies with his lips on Whiskey’s cheeks forever. He thinks maybe he’ll be insecure forever, maybe he’ll never feel like he deserves this. Then he looks over at Whiskey again, thinks he can learn.

“Thank you for being here this summer,” Whiskey says. 

“It’s not even half over,” Kent grins. 

“Almost your birthday,” Whiskey knocks their shoulders together. 

“Yeah,” Kent says, “Don’t remind me.”

“Ah shut up,” Whiskey says, “You’re not that old.”

“Gonna be 27,” Kent says. 

Whiskey shrugs, “Not 30 yet.”

“Will be soon. When I’m 30 you’ll be 24.”

“So?”

“I dunno, it’s just weird to think about. Like am I stealing your youth from you or some weird shit like that?”

“What does that even  _ mean _ ?”

Kent sighs, “Like… You’re being tied down too soon? It’s dumb.”

“It is,” Whiskey says, “I’m happy with you. And I definitely don’t feel like there’s anything else I should be doing.”

Kent slips his hand into Whiskey’s. Whiskey pours a water bottle over the smoldering embers of the fire and turns off the porch light. 

“I can sleep on the couch,” Kent says the second they open the sliding door. Whiskey shakes his head immediately. 

“You’re sleeping in my bed,” Whiskey says. 

Kent smiles softly to himself, “Okay. Your parents… Are they cool with that.”

“Whatever,” Whiskey says, “They said we could crash here, they weren’t any more specific than that which is on them.”

Whiskey has this thing about him, where he can be so nervous, so uptight, so fixated on how people see him. It’s how Kent sees him most of the time. And then, every now and then, Whiskey wants something so bad that he doesn’t care what anyone thinks. And right now, what Whiskey wants really badly is for Kent to be in his bed. Kent is so incredibly soft for this boy.

They close Whiskey’s bedroom door behind them. Whiskey opens his dresser and hands Kent a pair of cotton pajama pants, picking out a pair for himself. 

“You know,” Kent says, while he pulls his t-shirt over his head, “I know we probably don’t want kids, but if you want to hold a baby every now and then I would not complain,” Kent says. 

“You’re weird,” Whiskey says in the most reverent tone possible. 

“You’re cute and babies are cute,” Kent shrugs, hopping into the pajama pants. They’re big around the waist but he pulls on the strings and makes do.

He presses himself to Whiskey, bare chest to bare chest and he kisses him. Whiskey tilts his head, parts his lips and pulls Kent’s hips closer to his own. 

“Maybe one day we can change our minds,” Whiskey mutters against Kent’s face, “But what I want to do right now has absolutely nothing to do with making a baby.”

He tugs at the drawstring of Kent’s pajama pants. Kent’s mouth hangs open. 

“Baby,” Kent says breathless, “This is uh… your parents.”

“Heavy sleepers,” Whiskey says. 

“You’re going to kill me,” is all Kent has to say.

“Is that a yes?” Whiskey asks. 

“Yes,” Kent says. 

Whiskey pulls him into the double bed, positioning Kent on top of his waist. 

It feels innocent. Absolutely filthy, but innocent. His hands on Whiskey, Whiskey’s mouth on him. Holding his hand over his mouth to keep quiet, pausing every time they hear a noise in the hallway, making sure the headboard doesn’t hit the back of the wall. 

“We’re gonna have to change the sheets,” Whiskey whispers, his arms wrapped around Kent, sweaty and sticky and blissed out. 

Kent laughs, quietly, “In the morning.”

Whiskey reaches over to run his hands through Kent’s hair. He thinks about how messy it must look, he can feel the curls falling into his eyes, Whiskey brushes them aside. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Whiskey says, his voice is raspy and it makes Kent’s stomach swoop because he hasn’t felt beautiful in a long time, because he’s always wanted to feel beautiful but he’s never known how to ask someone to help him make that happen. And Whiskey just says stuff like that, like it’s no big deal, like it’s the whole entire truth and there’s no way he could be wrong. Whiskey’s so certain of what he wants. He wants to play hockey, he wants to be in the NHL, he wants Kent, he wants things to be easy and simple. He gets scared and he gets confused, but Kent’s becoming more and more aware that Whiskey knows what he wants. 

“I like being beautiful with you,” Kent says, it doesn’t come out exactly as he means it but Whiskey gets the gist. 

“I like that too,” Whiskey rubs his thumb over the back of Kent’s neck. 

“That was fun,” Kent says, “Very high school.”

“Very high school,” Whiskey agrees. 

“DId you and Rachel?” Kent trails off. 

“Here?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent nods. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey says. 

Kent rolls over so they’re looking eye to eye, “Why did you end up breaking up. I’ve never known.”

“We don’t have to talk about that stuff if it makes you-”

“Jealous?”

“Yeah.”

“It doesn’t.”

So Whiskey shrugs, “We got together because people always assumed we would, we’ve always been friends. I think there was a part of me back then that was so scared of people thinking I was gay that the idea of having a girl best friend and not sleeping with her wasn’t really on the table.”

Kent nods, “I used to do something like that too.”

Whiskey’s hands graze Kent’s shoulder, “She was my best friend and I guess I felt like the only way that was okay was if we were dating. And it wasn’t bad or anything, just kind of weird. And then I got to Samwell and it was so easy to say  _ I have a girlfriend  _ even though we didn’t talk a whole lot in the first few months and we broke up and we got back together in the summer and then broke up again. I think I realized that she’s important to me and I love her, but like a sister. And I guess we had this weird kind of shared trauma or whatever after her uncle died. Felt like no one else understood. We didn’t do a lot of talking in our relationship back then.”

Kent nods. 

“Like this wouldn’t have happened. We kind of just got dressed or went to sleep after… stuff.”

That sounds… familiar to Kent, to say the least. 

“I know it’s stupid and a dumb thing to be insecure about and I’m sorry but,” Kent takes in a breath, “Do you ever wish it worked out with her. That it would be easier?”

“I think maybe before I met you. Now though? Not even once. It’s not your fault that life’s not fair.”

“I know,” Kent says. 

“I want this to work,” Whiskey says. 

“Me too. I’m sorry for being so weird this past couple weeks. I’m getting used to it… the way you care about me.”

“You’re gonna make me cry.”

“Let it all out, baby,” Kent says. 

Whiskey laughs instead, misty eyes. 

“Asking for stuff is still hard,” Kent says, “But you always seem to know what I need, like even if I don’t know. And obviously it’s not your responsibility or anything to take care of me, I just appreciate it.”

“Wow, look at us,” Whiskey says, “Emotional intelligence, who would have thought.”

“Not bad for a pair of dumb jocks.”

“Not bad at all,” Whiskey agrees. 

They sit there for another couple of minutes, Kent gently mouthing kisses over Whiskey’s chest while Whiskey twirls Kent’s hair around his fingers. 

“Okay, we’re gross, I’m gonna grab a washcloth,” Whiskey sits up and eases himself out of bed, he pulls on his shorts and creeps out into the hallway. Kent has to remind himself sometimes that Whiskey always comes back when he leaves the room after sex. He’s not going to disappear, not going to sign an NDA on the counter and never see him again or lose his number for years at a time. It’s Whiskey and Whiskey loves him and just wants to wipe the sweat and… other stuff off of his chest. Whiskey comes back with a warm washcloth and throws it at Kent. It hits Kent in the face and he sputters. Whiskey laughs through an apology and Kent smiles, wiping himself down before Whiskey gets back into bed. 

“We should go roller skating tomorrow,” Whiskey suggests. 

“Okay,” Kent says simply, he knows Whiskey used to play roller hockey and he’s about to look like a chump but he honestly can’t say he’d mind getting embarrassed by Whiskey. 

“And then we’re going to go home, because as much fun as it was to hook up here, I like it when you’re loud,” Whiskey murmurs. 

“Filth,” Kent scolds him but not really. 

“Yeah,” Whiskey mumbles, “Y’know, I’m not really tired.”

“Me either.”

“I can’t stop thinking about how much I like you. Even while you’re right next to me,” Whiskey says. 

“Jesus, okay Nancy Meyers,” Kent knocks their shoulders together but he’s blushing, Whiskey notices. 

“I don’t want to talk too much about the future because I don’t want to scare you.”

“Thinking about our future is the opposite of scary,” Kent says. 

“Can my graduation present be a puppy?” Whiskey asks. 

Kent rolls his eyes, “Graduate first and then we’ll see.”

“I hate that I still have two more years. That’s so many plane tickets.”

“Think about all the frequent flyer miles we’ll have for our honeymoon,” Kent says before realizing exactly what he’s just said. He freezes, Whiskey’s hand stills on Kent’s shoulder. 

“Do you want that?” Whiskey asks. 

“Yes?” Kent answers, “No? Maybe?” he curls in on himself but Whiskey doesn’t let him disappear in his weird feelings. 

“Yes how?”

“Yes I want to spend a long time with you and probably go on a lame vacation to Hawaii, no I don’t think getting married is something we need to do for that to happen. Maybe because you never know what’s going to happen.”

“I’ll buy you a ring any day of the week.”

“The gossip blogs would eat that up,” Kent snorts. 

“Let them guess which supermodel you’re secretly married to, let me have the satisfaction of knowing I’m the only one who gets this.”

They talk for hours. About everything that matters and everything that doesn’t. About where they want to end up, about how they might not ever know. About whether or not they think Swoops and Kelli can be trusted to cat sit if they decide to go to Hawaii.

“Did your sister ever answer you?” Whiskey asks, Kent remembers the snap he’d sent. 

“Let me check,” Kent rolls over, fishes his phone out of his pocket. 

He opens the snapchat that Haileysent him about an hour ago. 

_ Is this a pretend to be surprised moment?  _ The white text says over a black background. He taps through to the next picture, she’s smiling. She has their mom’s dark hair and grey eyes, her dad’s curved nose.  _ He’s cute and mom would definitely appreciate someone else who has to pretend to like her potato salad.  _

Whiskey reads over his shoulder, buries his head in Kent’s neck, smile on his face and Kent is giddy. 

_ Love you, Hails,  _ he types out. 

“Not so scary, huh?” Whiskey says. 

“Yeah my biggest fear, my 13 year old sister.”

“Teenage girls can be monsters.”

“Okay, fair.”

Kent doesn’t want this to ever end. He doesn’t know how he’ll survive the distance once it stands between them again. But they did it once, and life goes on and things work out and he won’t give this up for anything, Whiskey’s hand resting on the curve of his ass as he pulls him to his chest to fall asleep, the way his heart feels anxious and peaceful at the same time. So right now he’ll hold on to the feeling, he’ll take whatever this summer gives him and he’ll keep it with him, right next to his heart. 

“Your hair’s in my mouth,” he hears Whiskey mutter, just before he passes out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end! I think i hit on all the emotions i wanted to hit on. Also I know how most of you feel about Stephen Whisk and I agree for the most part that he's a dumb dad, but I don't necessarily think he's a shitty dad. He's obtuse and stupid and emotionally unavailable but he really does love his son and if his son needs to bring his NHL player boyfriend to the barbeque then *sigh* he's cool with that. Like the Whisk family's problem isn't outright bigotry or anything intense and dramatic it's just a fundamental lack of communication. They don't talk and that's hard when you're a kid figuring yourself out who needs approval from his parents. It also definitely helps, as Kent pointed out, that he can leave whenever he wants. He's not bound to live in his parents house. 
> 
> Anyway, they're in love. They're dumb, they are u-haul lesbianing but it's fine.


End file.
